Coda
by glamaphonic
Summary: An Awakening novelization. Chapter Eleven: Anders considers his options.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue: The Vigil

**1**

At dawn, Mhairi left her camp behind. It had not been much to speak of: a small fire in a little clearing just off of the road. The fire was out and the ashes and burned tinder covered in dirt and scattered. Her rough blanket was rolled up and shoved back into her small pack. She slept in her armor—just worn and hardened leather for this excursion—and not especially well. But as she made her trek down the dusty road, there was a jaunt in her step.

Of the sundry soldiers and recruits currently housed at Vigil's Keep not many had volunteered for the lonely—and perceived lowly—task of acting as guide to the Vigil's incoming guests. And certainly none had volunteered more enthusiastically than Mhairi. While it was true that her duties during this assignment consisted primarily of walking all evening, camping alone, and walking all morning in order to report to a guard captain somewhere in the procession and likely get only the barest glimpse, if that, of the actual guest of honor, Mhairi could not help but be excited.

No matter how far removed from the woman's presence she would be, Mhairi was still technically acting as guide to Brighid Cousland. Or rather Brighid Theirin, nee Cousland: Hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander, and queen. That alone was worth any and all of the trouble of this errand. When she got the assignment, Rowland teased her and called her a hopeless idealist as was his wont, but Mhairi knew that he had volunteered as well.

They were soldiers first and foremost and they had all been struck in different ways by Loghain Mac Tir's treachery. He had been more than a hero. He was a symbol of all that was great and good about Ferelden and her people. For him to be a regicide, to have attempted to usurp the very throne he had almost single-handedly restored to the Theirin bloodline by ending the Orlesian occupation… It was unthinkable. His disgrace left a vacuum, but their new royals immediately stepped in to fill it. As far as Mhairi was concerned it felt incredible to even consider. Where she might have found herself aimless and shattered by the upheaval of all she believed in, instead she found new inspiration. No, being guide to such a woman—a living legend—as Queen Brighid was not a chore at all.

Mhairi had been walking for little more than an hour when she heard shuffling in the nearby brush. Her hand immediately went to the sword at her hip. Tense seconds passed before a family of hares appeared and skittered across the road a few yards down from where Mhairi stood. A pair of fawns followed them. Mhairi chided herself; few of unsavory character would dare to prey on the roads so near to the Vigil. What had she been expecting? Still, she was interested in what exactly had set the animals shuffling about so. She continued around the bend in the road and her question was immediately answered. In the near distance, she could see a small patrol of men huddled just off the road, the twin dogs and golden crown of the royal standard clear on their shields. Mhairi briefly took a few steps into the forest and peered between the trees. She could just make out flashes of color and movement, bright tents and soldiers milling about.

She returned to the road and quickened her pace as she approached the cluster of guards.

"Oi!" she called out in warning so as not to startle them. They were still wary as she neared, so she made certain to present the folded piece of parchment—complete with the seneschal's seal—that held her orders immediately. The senior among them was a very tall, very thick, fresh-faced young man called Willem who led Mhairi deeper into the camp.

By Mhairi's count there was a troop of at least two dozen soldiers, their crude, but neat tents and sleeping areas flanking another small circle of tents which must house the half dozen or so servants running about. And in the center of the camp sat the largest and most well-appointed tent, blazing golden and red. A guard stood at its flap and a pole was thrust into the ground beside it, bearing yet another rendition of the royal standard of Ferelden and House Theirin. Willem was silent and serious, and Mhairi had expected to be taken to his captain. She balked when he headed directly towards what could be none other than Queen Brighid's tent.

The guard let him pass without comment and Mhairi only hesitated briefly before ducking slightly and walking past the threshold herself.

Upon doing so she nearly tripped over a huge mabari hound, curled up on the floor just inside the tent. It snorted, shifted its massive head slightly and returned to its nap. Mhairi tiptoed around it carefully as she went to join Willem where he stood, awaiting acknowledgement.

Mhairi had seen the Queen of Ferelden on multiple occasions before, but solely from afar. When the king, selected but not yet coronated, presented her to his armies before they marched to face the darkspawn horde. After the archdemon was defeated, when she stepped out onto the balcony from the palace's throne room and acknowledged her future subjects while the streets of Denerim rang with elated cheers. And less than two weeks before Mhairi left for the Vigil, when Queen Brighid stepped out of those same doors hand-in-hand with King Alistair on their wedding day, as the nation celebrated once again.

That faraway figure resolved itself into an actual person before her now. As all reported, she was very pretty. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun at the crown of her head with only a few strands escaping in the front, leaving her strong, patrician features unobstructed. She was leanly muscled and broad-shouldered. Tall as well, obvious even though she was sitting at a table erected in the center of the tent. Her long legs stretched out beneath it, clad in well-tailored leather pants. She was also barefoot, Mhairi noticed, which felt bizarrely intimate.

A well-ordered man with long reddish-brown hair stood in front of her, silver armor gleaming, and seemed to be completing a report about the camp's status. He also seemed a bit tired. This, Mhairi realized, must be the captain.

"You have visitors, Perth," the queen said, interrupting. Though Mhairi got the feeling she hadn't much been listening in the first place. She looked down to scribble something on one of the papers spread out before her on the table as the captain turned to regard Mhairi and Willem. On cue, Willem bowed and Mhairi immediately followed suit.

"Your Majesty," Willem said. "Ser Perth. This is the guide from Vigil's Keep, just arrived."

At this, the queen's interest returned quite keenly to the goings-on in the tent.

"And what a timely arrival it is," the queen said. She waved her hand and Willem immediately backed out of the tent. "What is your name?"

"Mhairi, Your Majesty," she replied immediately, attempting to beat back the rather overwhelming and ridiculous urge to blush now that the queen's sharp-eyed gaze had turned to her.

"Mhairi, do tell. How far is it from here to Vigil's Keep?"

Ser Perth exhaled heavily and Mhairi looked at him a bit wide-eyed before responding.

"Under half a day's walk along the road, Your Majesty. Less than that if one takes certain cuts through the forest."

"Good," Queen Brighid said, looking quite satisfied. "We will leave immediately then."

"Your Majesty, the camp will not be packed up for hours yet," Ser Perth interjected, though it seemed to Mhairi that he expected little to come of this objection. "And your horse is not fed or watered."

"I have two working legs. Furthermore, I said that _I_ was going," the queen pointed out as a servant girl who had been sitting near the pallet in the corner handed her a pair of boots. "The camp may do whatever it likes."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I will assemble the guard."

"No."

"Your Majesty," Ser Perth said, looking quite put-upon. "The king would be very displeased were you to go traipsing off through the forests of Amaranthine with no guard."

"It is a good thing then that the king is not here," Queen Brighid replied.

"Half a dozen guardsmen, Your Majesty, please." There was a long pause as Ser Perth looked at his queen beseechingly.

"Three," the queen said, stomping her foot into her boot. "And you should be more wary of _my_ displeasure, Perth. I will take Willem and two others. Now begone and cease nagging me."

Ser Perth smiled at this as he bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

He departed then, navigating around the mabari which had apparently given up on its napping. It trotted over to Queen Brighid and butted its head against her side. She capitulated to its demands and scratched behind its ears as its stubby little tail wagged furiously. Mhairi stood by awkwardly, given no command, but not having been dismissed either. The queen spoke again suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Zevran," she said conversationally. Mhairi thought for a moment that she was speaking to the mabari, but then an elven man materialized from the far corner of the tent where Mhairi had not noticed him at all before. His clothes were simple, but finely made. His long light blond hair hung down his back. Parts of it were arranged in intricate patterns of braids pulling it away from his face, the tan skin of which was accented with various sweeping and complex markings. He was every bit as beautiful as he was wildly foreign. Mhairi wondered if he was Dalish, though he seemed too…urbane for that as he proceeded smoothly to the queen's side.

When he spoke, it was with a thick Antivan accent.

"Yes, my queen?" he asked.

"Do make sure that dear Ser Perth doesn't suddenly become confused about how many makes three, would you?"

"Of course." He swept out of the tent then and, Mhairi could have sworn, winked at her as he passed. The queen rose and went over to her pallet—which Mhairi now saw was fitted with a feather mattress—and dismissed the servant girl.

"Come help me with this," the queen commanded and Mhairi, being the only one left present besides the dog, assumed it was her being addressed. She crossed to where the queen stood regarding sundry pieces of armor that the servant girl must have been tending. Queen Brighid pulled off the vest she had been wearing, leaving only the white cotton tunic belted at her slender waist, then nodded to Mhairi to attire her.

"Handmaidens are well and good for making sure silks hang just right and lacing undergarments. Unfortunately, I have yet to succeed in translating that prodigious ability into properly strapping up armor," Queen Brighid explained.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Mhairi said just to be saying something, though most of her concentration was focused on not fumbling as she tied on the queen's greaves. The queen pulled on her bracers as Mhairi retrieved the cuirass and faulds. The pieces were attached and very light. Their base was leather overlaid with panels the size of Mhairi's palm. They looked onyx at first, but upon closer inspection were an extremely dark green. They were hard, but both their consistency and the way they had been layered together left the entire piece flexible. Mhairi buckled her in silently, double-checking all of the fixtures. When she was finished, the queen checked the straps and fit herself before nodding. Mhairi handed her the pair of scabbards that sat on top of a trunk at the foot of the pallet and Queen Brighid put these on herself. The longsword went between her shoulders, its hilt peeking over the right one, and the much smaller, but still large, knife went crosswise at the small of her back.

"Let's get going then, before Ser Perth tries to harry the entire procession into following us, camp pulled up or no," Queen Brighid said.

"Come on, Knight." At that the mabari barked twice and preceded them out of the tent.

"I believe Ser Perth is only concerned for your safety, Your Majesty," Mhairi said without thinking. Her breath caught in her throat when the queen looked at her. She did not seem angry, thankfully.

"Ser Perth has stood at my side while we defended a village from hordes of the undead with the most meager of forces. He knows very well that I can take care of myself. He is simply over-attached to doing his job."

"That is an admirable quality though, Your Majesty, is it not?"

"Certainly," said the queen. "When it is not inconveniencing me."

Mhairi did not know what to say in response to that, so she said nothing at all.

The queen continued through the camp without stopping and headed straight for the road. Ser Perth awaited them there at the forest's edge, accompanied by Willem and two other soldiers. The elven servant, Zevran, was there as well and, Mhairi realized with mild shock, was evidently coming along if the red velvet brigandine he had donned since leaving the queen's tent was any indication.

"I hope we're ready," the queen said as she pulled up even with the group.

"We are, Your Majesty," Willem said, absolute devotion writ plain on his face. Mhairi suspected that was why the queen had named him specifically and why Ser Perth had not argued further. It was clear that Willem would face down three archdemons by himself before he would allow a single hair on the queen's head to come to harm.

"We shall set out after you within a few hours," said Ser Perth. "Though it will be a slower journey for the procession."

"I am well aware," the queen said, checking something in one of the packs set on the road before nudging it towards one of the guards, who immediately put it on her back.

"Maker watch over you, Your Majesty." Ser Perth sketched a genteel bow and the queen inclined her head.

"Thank you, Perth," she replied. She turned down the road, then paused.

"Mhairi," she commanded and Mhairi, remembering herself, took a few long strides to walk in front of the queen and lead her towards the Vigil.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The trip back to Vigil's Keep was less lonely than the trip to the queen's encampment, though substantially more nerve-wracking. For the first few hours it was very quiet. Mhairi had never been the chattiest of her fellows, but Willem and the guard put her to shame with their disciplined silence. Mhairi was not sure whether it was something that Queen Brighid generally required of them or merely something that they took upon themselves out of propriety—or intimidation. Mhairi could not, herself, confess to being especially comfortable with the idea of making conversation with the queen, though she answered the woman's sporadic questions about the keep as best she could.

The queen did speak quietly from time to time with her servant and cooed at her mabari as it intermittently ran off and returned, having dug up various trinkets that it delivered to her. They stopped at midday to eat, just dry rations and water, but it seemed to loosen tongues all the same. Before they set off again, Mhairi conversed with Willem and learned that the other two guards were called Nola and Leland. She was quite sure she had also been subtly propositioned by the elf, Zevran. Mhairi stared at him, surprised and confused, the queen rolled her eyes, and Zevran laughed.

The sun was just setting as they neared Vigil's Keep. They could see the walls in the near distance and Mhairi squinted at them.

"That is odd," she said. "Why have no Wardens come to greet us?"

The words were barely out of her mouth when the mabari began to bark furiously and set off down the road.

"Knight?!" the queen yelled and ran after him. Mhairi and the others, naturally, ran after her. Queen Brighid had almost caught up to her dog when her steps faltered and she came to a stop with a sharp intake of breath. The mabari continued forward and disappeared through the gate, which Mhairi could now see was gaping open.

"Darkspawn," Queen Brighid declared and drew her longsword before continuing. Mhairi drew her sword as well and took a moment to wish that she was better armored. Willem overtook her, trailing after the queen, shield raised and blade at the ready. They were still a few yards from the gate when a man burst out of it chased by a pack of genlocks.

Mhairi had been in the last battle at Denerim. Things she saw there would stay with her forever, not least a glimpse of the archdemon, that great and awful dragon, flying overhead. But for all that she fought countless darkspawn that day, for all that she was wholly ready to dedicate the rest of her life to fighting them, she doubted she would ever get used to the sheer ferocity of them. They were so twisted, so evil, nothing but empty rage and a lust for death and corruption. She had never stood against them without her entire unit behind her before—an unbreakable line, each of them drawing strength from the others' resolve.

The fleeing soldier screamed, though he was armed, and Mhairi could not find it in her heart to blame him.

Queen Brighid charged forward and immediately sunk her sword into one of the darkspawn's chests. She slid it back off of the blade with a strong kick and, as it hit the ground, slit its throat with a slash that nearly took its head off. A second attacked her from the left, but Willem was there knocking away its wild swings with his shield and stabbing at it viciously. The queen immediately moved on to another, parrying its strike and quickly drawing her long knife to stab its face. Mhairi charged forward, as did Nola and Leland, and met the darkspawn. Nola and Leland steered darkspawn away with their shields as Mhairi, neither fully armored or armed, slashed at their backs. Instinctually, she kept her distance, muscle memory from years of practice guiding her footwork. The creatures seemed to have a preternatural attraction to Queen Brighid, attempting to surround and overwhelm her at any chance they were afforded. Mhairi and the others made sure they had no chance. Not that she thought they would have much otherwise. The queen had singlehandedly killed five of them when Mhairi last looked towards her, before she reminded herself that she needed to concentrate on her own fighting.

The fleeing soldier had been heartened by the assistance and joined the fray as well, bashing a darkspawn brutally with his mace. Zevran, however, had vanished. In the encroaching darkness and the chaos of the fight, Mhairi could not pinpoint his location. He had not been armed that she had seen and she supposed there was only so much that one could ask of a manservant. The final darkspawn was snuffed out with a horrific gurgle as Willem freed his sword from its throat. The soldier they had saved stood panting over one of the bodies, its head turned into an unrecognizable mush by his repeated mace blows.

He turned to look at the queen as she approached and evidently recognized her. He immediately fell to one knee.

"Your Majesty- I-I mean Warden-Commander, I-" he stammered.

Queen Brighid cut him off.

"What happened here? Where did the darkspawn come from?"

"I don't know- I don't know they- they were just there. There were so many. Everywhere inside the keep. They came out of nowhere."

Queen Brighid took this in stride. They could all hear the sounds of battle now, nearby and getting closer.

"How many Wardens survive?"

"I don't know!" he now looked near tears. Try as she might, Mhairi did not recognize him. She wondered how many of the dead she would know.

"You must help, please. You must."

The queen grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him to his feet. She stared at him, pinning him with her clear, blue eyes.

"My procession is down the road. They are on the way here. Go to them and tell Ser Perth that I sent you. Tell him that I said to bring his men as soon as possible. Tell him to leave all of his burdens behind if he must, but to come here now."

Mhairi was unsure that the man was in any condition to continue standing, much less carry a message, but she did not know if anyone in all of Ferelden could have denied the queen's command in that moment. He nodded vigorously, unable to form words.

"Go!" the queen said, releasing him, and he ran.

"Just what we need. Darkspawn launching sneak attacks," the queen said. At first, Mhairi thought that she was merely thinking aloud, then she noticed that Zevran had reappeared without her notice and stood at the queen's side. He was untouched by the battle. Wherever he had been hiding, it had been well out of harm's way.

"Since when do they learn new tricks?" he asked.

"The better question is why couldn't I sense them until I was practically on top of them," the queen replied.

Their discussion was calm. Hearing it, Mhairi felt anything but.

"How could they be so organized? I don't understand!" she said more loudly than she intended. "The Blight is over. There is no archdemon to command them."

"Perhaps there is something else leading them," the queen said.

"There's a happy thought," said Zevran, a wry turn to his mouth.

"I assume guide is not the extent of your normal duties?" Queen Brighid asked Mhairi, with a glance towards Mhairi's bloodied sword and relatively unbloodied person.

Mhairi followed the queen as she began striding towards the gate and shook her head, though the queen was not looking at her.

"I was a knight in the king's service, Your Majesty. I came to the Vigil a month ago, after volunteering to become a Grey Warden. I have not had my Joining yet, obviously."

"Then I suppose," the queen said as she slipped past the gate. "You can consider this a pre-initiation."

Inside there was a tumult. There were still soldiers alive and fighting, scattered around the village in small groups of two or three, but the ones that they could see were outnumbered by darkspawn. Two large ones tried to take the queen's party from their left but were met by Willem, Nola, and Leland. Out of the corner of her eye, Mhairi saw Zevran dashing off to one side before she lost sight of him entirely yet again.

The queen scanned the area, hawk-like, and then she ran towards a small cottage down the lane. Mhairi had no idea what Queen Brighid was doing until she drew closer. An eerie light revealed a hunched-over darkspawn clutching at a gnarled staff. It waved the staff in an undulating pattern and the air seemed thicker the nearer Mhairi got. It stopped whatever dark magic it had been working when it noticed the queen about to flank it and instead pointed its staff at her. A stream of fire erupted from the tip, aimed straight at the queen's chest.

Queen Brighid raised her forearms to block her face and Mhairi yelled a useless warning. She watched, thinking that she would bear sole witness to the demise of the Hero of Ferelden, but the queen kept moving forward. Where the fire hit her chest and stomach it dissipated against the shining black-green of her armor without igniting. The burning stream stopped before the queen even looked especially bothered. The darkspawn mage flailed wildly and a violet glow sprung up on the ground around him. The queen stumbled backwards as if shoved by an invisible hand. She went down, but rolled head over heels with the force, immediately gaining her feet again. Mhairi charged and ran into resistance as well, but braced for it and did not fall.

The assault from multiple sides seemed to tax the darkspawn beyond its capabilities since when the queen next pressed forward it only tried to club her with its staff. She blocked with her knife, which sunk into the wood, and drove her longsword into its shoulder. It shrieked, an awful sound, then raised its free hand, glowing red and dripping with its own blood, to grab the queen's arm. She gritted her teeth as it made contact, but did not otherwise react before knocking its staff to the ground, pulling her sword out, and driving it back into the darkspawn's chest. It released her and fell dead.

Mhairi watched as the queen bent to get her knife, which was still lodged in the darkspawn's staff. Once she retrieved it, she did not straighten back up again fully. Instead, she stayed bent at the waist for a long moment, resting her hands on her knees. Mhairi rushed to her side, unsure whether it would be appropriate to touch her in order to check her condition. She could see then that the sleeve of the queen's tunic was worn away on her bicep where the darkspawn had grabbed her. The edges were blackened and the queen's arm itself was coated in what Mhairi hoped was the darkspawn's blood. Before Mhairi could decide on a course of action, the queen straightened up again.

"One does get spoiled having a templar always about," she said before setting off again. Willem rushed towards them, looking at the queen with great concern, but she paid him no mind. Nola and Leland still fought beside some of the soldiers nearby and they were doing far better than they had been without the darkspawn mage casting protections on its compatriots. They walked only a few steps towards one of the lingering conflicts before there was a roar from down the main road, past the houses locked and shuttered against the attackers.

Near the steps of the keep itself, at least half a dozen men swung their weapons frantically and, it appeared, futilely at an ogre. The massive beast swatted at them as though they were flies, each swing of its meaty hand threatening to send them flying. It kicked and caught one man behind it with its foot, and he went about eight feet in the air before landing with a thud and the sound of crunched steel. Mhairi spotted the queen's mabari for the first time since they'd passed the gate, snapping and snarling at the ogre's heels.

"At least it's not in armor," the queen mumbled before taking a breath and running directly for the ogre. Mhairi and Willem followed. Most of the men had already fallen back when they approached, either injured or hopeless in the face of such a beast. Noticing its mistress, the mabari fell back as well, but only to her side, still growling.

"Turn him around, boy," the queen commanded and the mabari charged forward again. He darted between the ogre's legs and circled one, then the other while the beast attempted to catch him. As it turned to one side the queen moved in, slashing its exposed flank and opening a wide cut. The ogre swept back around to face her and swung, but she dodged easily. On its other side, the war hound clamped down on the ogre's leg, worrying it ruthlessly. The ogre spun again, dog still attached to his leg and Willem charged. He stabbed the ogre in its side before it had oriented itself to face him, but in his full plate armor was too slow when it did turn on him, furious. It swatted at him and Willem raised his shield.

The ogre's fist, about the same size as the shield, slammed against it and Willem fell to the ground hard on his side. The queen sliced the ogre's back, causing another copiously bleeding wound and Mhairi took the opportunity to hack at the leg nearest her. The ogre, however, had clearly decided on its target. With a jerky kick it dislodged the mabari from its leg and sent it skidding across the ground with a whine, where it rolled over and over for a few yards and then lay still. Then, the ogre began to advance on Willem, whose teeth were clenched in pain as he attempted to scramble backwards.

Mhairi stabbed the ogre's leg again, but was forced to jump back when it kicked at her negligently without changing course. Then, the queen ran full speed at the ogre's back. She looked like she might tackle the creature until at the last moment she half-crouched and half-slid between its legs. She stood up on the other side, directly in front of it, and jammed her sword into its stomach up to the hilt. The ogre howled, sending blood flying as it bubbled up in its mouth. It reached for the queen and no one could have been fast enough to escape its grasp from such close proximity.

The ogre snatched the queen off of her feet and yelled in pain again as it did so. Queen Brighid had not released her grip on her sword, and so when it picked her up it had also pulled the sword out of its own belly at an angle. The gaping wound in its stomach oozed and filled the air with a scent even more foul than all of the blood and death around them. The ogre held the queen in one hand and she struggled to wriggle free of its grip. The queen's attempts were unsuccessful and the ogre lifted her up higher to stare at her with what Mhairi could only call contempt. Then, the hilt of a dagger suddenly bloomed from its left eye.

Mhairi retraced the trajectory just in time to see Zevran lower his outstretched arm and dart forward, a matching dagger, already dripping with blood, in his other hand. The ogre barely had time to finish its wail of pain before the elf was upon it. With blindingly fast flicks of his wrist, Zevran covered its arm, leg, and side with quick nicks and cuts that Mhairi did not grasp the effectiveness of until they began, almost instantly, to swell and froth with pus. The daggers were obviously tipped with something very virulent and Zevran was obviously no more just a servant than Mhairi was just a guide.

Queen Brighid took full advantage of the ogre's host of new troubles and managed to free both of her arms. She stuck her own knife deep into its shoulder and the ogre released her entirely. The queen hung then, for just a heartbeat, from the handle of her dagger, legs swinging, before bringing her right arm up and driving her sword into its chest. The ogre wavered on its feet and toppled backwards. Kneeling on the creature's chest, Queen Brighid freed both of her weapons before driving her sword through its remaining eye and wrenching it downwards, then to one side, before pulling it out. The ogre's arm twitched one last time, then it was still.

"Your Majesty," came Willem's voice, cracking with concern. He had pulled himself back to his feet. He clutched his shield arm as he moved towards her, but the queen was peering off into the darkness. The sun had set completely during the fighting and the night was cloudy.

"Knight!" she called. There was a long pause and then a whine and a bark before the mabari came trotting out of the shadows. He butted his head against the queen's hand, then licked it.

"I am so sor-" Willem began, anguished, but Queen Brighid cut him off.

"I'm fine, Willem."

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied, but he did not seem at all relieved by her reassurance.

At the ogre's head, Zevran plucked his dagger from its eye and attempted to wipe the blood off on the creature, to little avail.

"You know I hate the way this smells," he said to the queen as he came to her side.

"We all have problems, Zev," she replied.

They doubled back to collect Nola and Leland. The queen's gaze flicked towards Willem's injured arm as she passed him, but just as soon returned to focusing straight forward, steely. She said nothing and Willem stared at his boots the entire way. For her part, Mhairi noticed that no small number of the darkspawn corpses they passed were covered in the same angry welts and sores as the dead ogre. She eyed Zevran speculatively, but he just grinned at her.

Nola and Leland had gathered the surviving soldiers with them, a baker's dozen dragging a few wounded, and they directed the entire party back towards the keep and off to one walled and protected corner where a handful more soldiers were administering aid to at least a score of injured. Queen Brighid pulled the most senior man there off to one side and began to question him. Zevran hovered nearby while the mabari sat at her feet. As Nola and Leland helped with the injured, Mhairi followed close behind Willem. Her gauging of his mood left her unwilling to directly offer him help, but similarly unwilling to leave him entirely to his own devices. Still cradling his arm, he made his way over to one of the soldiers tending the injured.

"Can you check my arm?" he asked the man. The strain in his voice surprised Mhairi, as did his heavy breathing. He was in more pain than she'd suspected.

Without a word, the soldier removed Willem's huge pauldron—now misshapen from impact—and slid off his gauntlet and the rest of the mildly dented plate. He probed up the arm from the wrist and when he got to Willem's shoulder the younger man hissed loudly in pain.

"It's dislocated," the soldier informed him and before he could say anything else Willem had already issued a command.

"Pop it back in," he said.

"I can," the soldier replied, "But you'll need a sling and some rest before-"

"Just pop it back in."

Obediently, the soldier stretched out Willem's arm before turning it and then jerking it upwards. Willem didn't scream, but his face screwed up in agony and tears brimmed at the corner of his eyes. When the soldier released him, he shrugged it experimentally and winced, but immediately began re-attaching his armor. The soldier looked as though he might say something, but eyeing Willem's face, decided better of it and wandered off.

Willem was flexing his fingers inside of his gauntlet when the queen rejoined them.

"Nola, Leland," she said and they immediately stood at attention. "Wait an hour, make sure there aren't darkspawn hiding in any corners out here. Then take half of these men and go into the keep and clear out any stragglers you come across."

"Yes, Your Majesty," they said in unison.

The queen took a moment to spread a poultice on her arm and deftly wrap a bandage around it. Mhairi could see now that there was an angry red splotch beneath the drying blood where the darkspawn mage had touched her. While she did so Zevran collected a few extra medical supplies, tucking them into a pocket on his belt. Willem merely stood and arranged himself beside the queen, a huge, immoveable statue.

"Mhairi," the queen said when she had finished tending her arm. "Do you still wish to be a Grey Warden?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Mhairi replied without hesitation.

"Then come along."

With that Queen Brighid, Zevran, and Willem marched towards the doors of the keep. One was slightly ajar, but Mhairi could see nothing inside. Even the dog seemed full of silent determination as he followed.

Mhairi looked down at the makeshift pallet beside her, where a man lay, eyes staring up unseeing at the night sky. No one had been watching him and he'd died. She thought, unbidden, of Rowland, who had befriended her during her first week in the service, when she was young and terrified and determined. Was he dead as well? Had he died alone with no one to notice his passing?

A shield leaned against the wall at the head of the pallet. Mhairi picked it up and adjusted the familiar weight into place on her left arm.

Then, she followed her queen into the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Inside, the main corridor of the keep was empty. A few torches flickered high on the walls lighting the large room, and the interior portcullis was down. The darkspawn were already inside, but so were the Wardens. Mhairi chose to take it as a good sign.

The queen led the way up the steep stairs, towards the door that would allow them onto the balcony holding the portcullis control. She stopped abruptly at the top.

"It's barricaded," she declared after fiddling with the handle and shouldering the door. She stepped back from the door and looked up. Mhairi did as well. By design, the wall was too sheer to climb even from the top of the steps. The queen frowned and herded them all back down the stairs.

"Does that lead to the front outer wall?" Queen Brighid asked Mhairi, indicating the much lower balcony and attendant door on the other side of the room.

"Yes, rather directly."

"We'll circle around then," said the queen, already on the move. "It would be best to clear the parapets of darkspawn anyway lest they begin raining arrows down on those outside."

Willem went in front, opening the door as the others stood with their weapons at the ready. The first chamber was clear, but as soon as they stepped inside they heard screaming from the adjacent room. Willem rushed forward, the queen and her mabari on his heels, and threw open the door. Even from her position further back, Mhairi could feel the oppressive heat. She nearly choked on the smell of charred flesh and was not entirely sure how Willem and the queen, both standing in the doorway, could bear it. They went into the room, however, and Mhairi braced herself and followed.

The floor was littered with bodies. Many darkspawn, and Mhairi noticed with a frown, men as well. They were well-armored, though it had done them little good. Standing in the center of the massacre was a lone man, dressed in robes. Fire sprung from his hands, roasting a twitching darkspawn where it stood. It fell and the man turned, noticing the new arrivals. He was about Mhairi's age and very handsome. His blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and a golden earring gleamed in his right ear.

"I didn't do it!" he exclaimed in a rush, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Or perhaps innocence, considering his words.

"Not that I'm too broken up about it," he added, voice lowered. "This one liked to kick me in the head if he woke up before me." He indicated one of the dead men—templars, Mhairi now realized.

"Who are you?" the queen demanded.

The man pulled himself from his wary eyeing of Willem and his face brightened as he actually focused on the queen. He bowed at her and smiled broadly.

"You may call me Anders, my dear lady, mage and, sadly, wanted apostate."

Mhairi could not contain her shock. It had been obvious that he was a mage and most mages did not have the most harmonious of relationships with templars. But it was something else entirely for him to be an actual outlaw.

"An apostate? At Vigil's Keep? I knew nothing of such a person," she said.

Anders turned to regard Mhairi then and she saw the same spark of interest that had been evident when he looked at the queen.

"You must not have been here when we arrived. I certainly would never forget a face like that," Anders replied. "We were only stopping through when these darkspawn swarmed and killed my guards. The Maker works in mysterious ways don't you think?" Mhairi opened her mouth to speak, but Anders had not yet finished.

"And, to be entirely clear with all this talk of what sort of person I am." Here his voice grew hard. "I am an apostate and only an apostate. I seek but freedom from the Circle. No cavorting with dark spirits for me."

"I do not care who you are," the queen said suddenly and with enough force that every eye turned to her. "You are here, you are not a darkspawn, and so you will help. Come along."

Mhairi stood in dull shock and Willem was not much better. Zevran, oddly, only chuckled and followed the queen as she began to pick her away across the room.

Anders too seemed mildly confused, but recovered in short order, waggling his eyebrows at Queen Brighid as she neared him.

"Pretty _and_ pragmatic. A striking combination."

"I like him," Zevran said to the queen, quietly enough that Mhairi barely heard him. Willem, however, sneered, drew close to the mage, and loomed over him, taking full advantage of the substantial height difference. When he spoke he was a hair off from shouting.

"You watch your mouth, you cur! Have you any idea whom it is you are addressing?"

"Leave it, Willem," Queen Brighid said without turning around. With an obvious struggle, Willem clenched his jaw and shouldered past the mage.

"Touchy, isn't he?" Anders said, turning to follow them as Mhairi took up the rear.

"She is Brighid, Queen of Ferelden," Mhairi whispered in warning.

Anders laughed disarmingly and leaned close to Mhairi to whisper back.

"Of course she is. And I am the King of Antiva."

Mhairi sighed and said no more.

The queen's observation about clearing the wall proved wise. They had no sooner stepped out into the brisk night air before they were set upon by a pair of darkspawn wielding bows. Outnumbered and with the effectiveness of their weapons ruined by the close proximity, the darkspawn fell without trouble. The mage had hardly raised his arms before the queen was wiping the excess blood from her sword onto one of the creatures' tattered clothing.

"She is impressive, isn't she?" Anders said.

Despite the fact that she more than agreed, Mhairi frowned, his tone causing her undue irritation.

When, they descended back into the keep, the narrow balcony that held the portcullis control fit them all, but only just. The queen's mabari stayed in the doorway from which they'd emerged, half standing on the steps. Mhairi thought she saw a hint of movement far below, near where they'd passed through to circle around. It was gone before she could confirm or deny it.

Willem rolled his shoulders before he worked the lever. If the effort agitated his earlier injuries, he gave no sign. The sound of shifting gears and chains rubbing against each other filled the air and the gate clanged its way upwards. Before it made it halfway, a great commotion went up: the stomping of feet and an unmistakable snarling gibber. Darkspawn swarmed through the opening, almost filling the entire entryway. Once again, Mhairi spied movement across the way and it resolved itself into a small, tawny-haired person before there was a deafening boom, like thunder, and the entire room shook.

The mabari howled loudly. Willem, losing his balance, swerved desperately to avoid falling on the queen. She would have been slung into the wall were she not braced from behind by Zevran. Anders nearly toppled over the balcony edge, but Mhairi grabbed a handful of his robes and yanked him backwards. He fell into her instead and they landed in a heap.

"What in the name of Andraste's bloody ashes was that?" the queen exclaimed. The register of her voice was higher than normal and Mhairi thought perhaps the queen's ears were ringing the same as hers.

"I thought I saw a dwarf down there," Mhairi said, her voice muffled by Anders' shoulder. She shifted her head in order to get his hair out of her eyes. He wheezed a bit as he lifted himself off of her and when Mhairi looked at him, he grimaced.

"Knocked the wind out of me," he said.

"You really are quite delicate, aren't you?" Mhairi asked, but he just shrugged, grinning.

Mhairi made her way to the banister to look down. A cloud of thick black smoke was still dissipating and there were patches of fire burning here and there. The explosion, whatever had caused it, wiped out the darkspawn. They were nothing but blood, pulp, and some charred limbs that had managed to stay mostly whole. A few more darkspawn inched their way into the room. When nothing happened, they eschewed caution and rushed towards the steps.

Without a word, the queen headed down into the adjacent room to meet them. Willem helped the queen move the pile of wooden chairs and the table propped in front of the door and the darkspawn burst through. The first charged right onto the end of Queen Brighid's sword. Willem surged forward, slamming his shield into the next and knocking half of them down or off of the steps as they fell into each other. Few squeezed past Willem into the room. They were dispatched quickly. The queen led the way down the steps and towards the opened portcullis, negligently slitting the throats of the injured and crippled darkspawn they passed with flicks of her sword.

Mhairi tried not to look at what she was walking on as they made their way, though the squelching under her boots still made her stomach turn. But what truly made the bile rise in her throat was how many there had been. The Wardens could not be faring well if a score of darkspawn could sit in wait.

Anders paused and ran his gloved finger across a scorch mark on the wall and lifted it to his nose.

"What are you doing?" Mhairi demanded.

"It smells…familiar," he said, face screwed up in confusion.

"Like char and death?" Mhairi suggested.

"No," he replied, but got to walking again anyway.

The main corridor split into three after a few yards. The sounds of fighting could be heard from every direction and Queen Brighid immediately turned to Mhairi.

"Which way are the Grey Wardens quartered?"

Mhairi pointed down the east corridor, eager.

"This way, my lady."

As they went, some sounds faded and others grew more distinct. The queen and Willem slung open the odd door here and there as they traveled through the winding corridor, wanting to make sure that there were no darkspawn lurking immediately behind them as they progressed. For the most part the rooms were empty, barring a few where terrified clusters of servants hid. The queen commanded them to run back the way her own party had come and straight outside. No one argued.

They did not encounter living darkspawn until they neared the study they needed to pass through to access the wing of the keep where the Orlesian Wardens and recruits bunked. Mhairi could hear fighting from within and charged the darkspawn who attempted to bar their way. She had not realized how little she expected to find any of her compatriots alive until she felt the anticipation that filled her in that moment. Mhairi slammed her shield into one of the darkspawn and knocked it through the door into the study.

The queen slipped past her. Smooth as a shadow, Queen Brighid came up behind a darkspawn mage and sunk her knife into its neck. The darkspawn gurgled and died without casting a single spell. The queen immediately engaged with a large, armored hurlock who had been standing near it. Willem, Zevran, and Knight followed her and joined the fighting.

There were nearly a dozen darkspawn in the room and Mhairi pointedly did not look at the face of a nearby man who lay on the floor, newly dead. Near the far door, three darkspawn surrounded one man who could barely be seen. Mhairi was barred from approaching him by a hurlock brandishing a barbed mace.

She blocked its swing with her shield and countered, trying to open up its gut. It dodged. She only glanced its leg, just barely drawing blood. Mhairi was driven slowly backwards as its crushing blows battered her shield.

Mhairi remembered its kin from the Battle of Denerim. It was one of what passed for their captains. Everyone else was absorbed in their own conflicts. She would have no assistance. Her shield arm ached. Mhairi tried to move out of her opponent's reach to little avail. She did not have enough space to maneuver properly without blundering into the other fights being met. The darkspawn swung towards her stomach. One of the spikes tore through the leather and her skin, and she gasped.

There was pain and then Mhairi felt heat through her whole body, as though she was suddenly feverish. Then, just as suddenly, she felt cold, like she'd slid into a cool, forest stream in the beginning of autumn. She rushed forward and shouldered the darkspawn back with her shield. It fell and she looked down at her own stomach. There was blood where the mace had caught her, but no wound. As the darkspawn regained its feet, Mhairi circled it as best she could. The change in position let her see Anders. He stood by the door, waving his hands in precise motions as he cast healing magic on her.

Mhairi felt a sudden surge of energy and knocked the darkspawn's mace away when next it swung, then stabbed it. It still managed to stagger back out of her reach and its eyes fell on Anders. It turned away from Mhairi entirely and lumbered towards the mage. Anders' eyes widened and Mhairi immediately perceived the problem. The quarters were too close. Any truly destructive magic Anders cast would harm his friends as much as his foes. Mhairi ran after the darkspawn and, with a grunt, jammed the edge of her shield into the nape of its neck just as it closed on Anders. There was a crunch and the darkspawn fell forward, its spine severed. Anders moved partially out of the way, but not in time. It fell on him and he yowled as he ended up on the floor half under its body.

"Help! Please," he called to her and his voice was strong enough that she did not expect any permanent damage. "I'm very delicate, remember?"

Mhairi pulled her shield out of the darkspawn's neck and slung it across her back, then grunted as she rolled it over and off of Anders. She gave him a hand up and he winced as he put his weight on his left foot.

"Delicate," he repeated and pouted ridiculously at her. Mhairi slung his arm around her shoulder and grasped him about the waist without comment.

The others had finished up and Mhairi looked to the far end of the room, expecting to see another body where no one had been able to help the outnumbered man. Instead she saw the three darkspawn dead and a redheaded dwarf leaning on an axe nearly as tall as he was.

It was unkind, but Mhairi's heart sank. She recognized the dwarf. Or- or Og- something. He had shown up at the keep two weeks earlier, claiming to be interested in becoming a Grey Warden. By Mhairi's estimation, he was substantially more interested in consuming all of the alcohol and attempting to bed all of the women in the general vicinity. Mhairi had avoided him studiously whenever she could. That he should be the only surviving recruit they had thus far met was almost as shocking as it was disappointing.

But not so shocking as the fact that upon turning to regard them, he waved and called out to the queen like a long lost friend.

"Ay! Finally got here, eh? I told them," he said and Mhairi thought that he might actually be drunk even now. "Just you wait until the real Warden gets here. You'll be spitting teeth out of your arses. Well, I told them that. And then I killed them. Hope you're not too pissed I started without you."

"Oghren?" Queen Brighid said and Mhairi had not thought she would ever see the woman so caught off guard.

"Oghren, my old friend," said Zevran stepping forward.

"Elf," Oghren replied. "Still trailing around after her hoping to break off a piece, huh?"

Zevran smiled, unaffected.

"It is good to see that time has not stolen away your charm," he said smoothly.

"Oghren, what are you doing here?" Queen Brighid asked. Mhairi took more comfort than she would ever admit in the fact that the queen seemed no happier to see the dwarf than she was.

"He has been here for weeks," Mhairi offered. "He said that he wishes to join the order. I can scarcely believe the Wardens allowed him to stay."

Oghren turned towards her, none too steady on his feet, and leered.

"Well, if it isn't the recruit with the great rack," he said, words slurring slightly. "Who's the mage, your boyfriend?"

Anders spoke first.

"A drunken dwarf? Really? Are you sure you're comfortable being that stereotypical?"

Oghren snorted.

"So, we got a funny mage. I thought the templars beat that out of you young."

"Yes," Mhairi interjected, sneering at the dwarf. "You are a prize for the Wardens, indeed."

"I'll show you a-" he began.

"Oghren," came the queen's voice, cutting. "How many Wardens and recruits still live?"

"Sod if I know," the dwarf barked. "I woke up, there were darkspawn everywhere, I started killing them."

The queen looked as though she might sigh—or curse—but instead smoothed the hair that had loosed itself from her bun back with both hands. Then, she set off towards the door in front of which Oghren still stood.

"Let's go," she said and they all trailed behind her. Willem gave the dwarf an intensely dirty look as he passed him, either displeased with some of Oghren's comments or mimicking his queen's apparent dislike. Oghren belched in his general direction.

They came to another fork, two halls this time, and Mhairi began to move forward to lead them, still helping to support Anders. Then, she thought better of it and merely called out the direction.

"I can go it myself," Anders said as they began moving again.

"Are you sure?" Mhairi asked. He did not seem the type to try to conceal his pain for the sake of pride, but she was worried nonetheless.

"Positive." As proof, he removed himself from her grasp and took a few stable, unassisted steps.

Mhairi narrowed her eyes. "You didn't have me helping you along for prurient reasons, did you?"

"You can't prove anything," he said with grin that was far too attractive and an accompanying wink. But as they continued, Mhairi could see that he was favoring his left foot.

The place was eerily clear of darkspawn the further they went. When they passed into the large circular common room that branched off into the barracks, Mhairi realized why.

The darkspawn were done here.

There were bodies all over the floor, very few Wardens, but then there had been only twelve come over from Orlais. The rest were all recruits. They had been fifty strong. There were at least thirty here dead on the floor and hung like meat from the rafters. Mhairi clenched her jaw and for the first time, looked at their faces. She looked at men and women she'd laughed and eaten and trained beside, with whom she had spoken of a still-tenuous future. She wanted the darkspawn to suffer for this. And that was all she wanted.

Mhairi looked up from her study of her fallen comrades just in time to see the queen rushing towards the side hall entrance that led back up to the parapets. Mhairi followed, as did the others. When they drew closer, she heard a gasping gurgle, right before she saw the heavily injured man sitting propped up against the wall.

"Rowland!" she yelled and rushed past everyone, queen included, to drop to her knees at his side.

He was covered in blood, his armor rent, and the parts of his flesh she could see were decorated with ugly gashes. Some wounds were blackened at the edges, like rot. It made tears burn in her eyes just to look at them. She had tried so hard not to think of him once they'd entered the keep, to hope that he was in some other section of the castle they had not reached or passed, to convince herself that he was not among the dead. He had been a constant friend all these years. When she went to volunteer for the Wardens it was only natural that he did as well. When they were both chosen it seemed like fate.

"Anders!" she called, but the mage was already there, peering down at Rowland, whose eyelashes were fluttering. He was barely holding onto consciousness. Anders' face was grim.

"I'm afraid his injuries are too extensive and they must be hours old," Anders said. "He is beyond healing magic. The best I could offer him is a shot of whiskey for the pain."

Behind them, Oghren grunted out a laugh.

"I like the way you think, boy."

Mhairi rounded on him, her voice breaking with emotion as she yelled.

"Stop joking! This isn't funny!"

"Anders, Oghren, scout up ahead. Make sure there's nothing lying in wait," the queen said. They obeyed and set off down the hall. Queen Brighid's face was stony, but Mhairi felt gratitude well up in her chest.

Gently, Mhairi stroked Rowland's cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. Then, his eyes opened fully.

"Mhairi?" he asked thinly.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Then," his voice grew stronger and he turned his head. His eyes locked onto the queen. "She must be- yes- commander. Your Majesty."

"I am," Queen Brighid said. "What happened here, ser?"

"We only had- a moment's warning from the Wardens. The seneschal, he ordered a counterattack but-" He paused, his pain overwhelming him for a few moments before he could continue. "There was little hope. They were everywhere already. They killed most of the Wardens. Their leader- It has some awful power- It talks."

"A talking darkspawn?" Zevran said, incredulity clear. "He must be delirious from the pain."

The queen ignored him.

"Where is it, ser?" she pressed.

"It took the seneschal-" He groaned in agony and was left gasping. "Something in my blood. It _hurts_."

Mhairi dearly wished to say something, but she could not.

"The Taint has taken hold," Queen Brighid observed. "It will be over soon."

Rowland came back to himself at this, the urgency of his message sustaining him.

"Seneschal Varel, it took him," he repeated. "Up to the roof. You must save him. You must help."

"I will end this," the queen said. It seemed less like a promise than a recitation of fact.

Rowland smiled. "It was an honor to meet you, my queen. I wish I could have fought by your side- just once."

His eyes began to lose focus as he looked back at Mhairi.

"Go on, sweet girl," he whispered. Mhairi held his gaze until it was clear that he no longer saw anything.

She rose and followed as the queen led the way down the hall. They found Oghren and Anders around a corner, standing over a few fresh darkspawn corpses.

"There weren't many," Oghren reported, evidently disappointed.

"The roof entrance, Mhairi?" Queen Brighid asked.

"Left," Mhairi said.

Anders and Oghren fell into step with them and Mhairi could feel the mage's gaze on her. She did not think that she could handle his curiosity or even concern just then, so she ignored him. Mhairi barely felt anything when they stepped once again into the cool night air, the wind buffeting them at this high altitude. Their target was immediately visible.

A cluster of darkspawn were scattered about. One had just tossed some poor soul over the parapet. Another held Seneschal Varel at a kneel before their leader, his silver hair twisted in its hand. The leader was larger and its attire more ordered than the typical darkspawn mishmash of worn, mostly stolen armor. And, true to Rowland's word, it was giving verbal instructions.

"It has ended, just as he foretold," it said, its voice rough and raspy. "Be taking this one gently. No more death than necessary."

"What does your kind know of necessity, monster," Seneschal Varel said.

"You are thinking you know anything of my kind, human?" the darkspawn asked.

"Maker's breath," the queen said. "It really is talking."

At this the darkspawn turned, alerted to their presence.

"How about we shut it up, then!" Oghren growled, then charged.

"Capture the Grey Warden," the darkspawn yelled. "These others can be killed."

Everyone moved at once, but Mhairi could see only the talking darkspawn. It was the leader. It was in command. It was the reason that all of this had happened—that Rowland was dead. Mhairi had some vague awareness that the queen was beside her, also moving towards the talking darkspawn, but it did not slow her down.

She ran, full tilt, and slammed her shield into the creature's chest. Its sword had been at the ready, but if it caught any part of her, she did not feel it. She knocked it to its back and raised her own sword to strike. The creature delivered a hard kick to her stomach, driving her back before she could stab him. She stumbled and the queen rushed in just as the darkspawn regained its feet.

Mhairi heard the sounds of the battle around them as if from the other side of the wall. She watched, attention fixed on the queen engaging the talking darkspawn, thinking only of her next opening. Unlike the rest of its ilk, this creature could almost keep up with the queen in a head-on fight. Its skill with a sword was nowhere near her own, but it was intelligent enough to have some ability and that was backed by its inhuman strength and stamina. Queen Brighid had tagged it multiple times, but it was not significantly slowed. Then, the queen parried one of its strikes with her long knife and stabbed it hard in the shoulder with her sword. She danced back out of range and Mhairi charged. The queen yelled something, but Mhairi wasn't listening.

She fell on the darkspawn, hacking and slicing. It strained to meet her swings. She got through, cutting its arm, its chest, its leg. It was not skill, not in that moment, just blind fury. She swung again and the darkspawn raised its arm and caught her sword on its gauntlet. She was trying to wrench it away when it swung with its other arm and hit her across the face. Pain bloomed and dark spots danced in front of her eyes. Now she thought Anders might be yelling. As she began to fall, she felt arms catch under hers and drag her away. She tried to resist, eyes still on the darkspawn. Mhairi did not want to be away from it. If she was away from it, she could not kill it.

Then, as she watched, lightning struck it from out of nowhere. The darkspawn twitched and shook as the electricity coursed through its body. Mhairi could smell it burning. The smell jolted her and she realized that the lightning was coming not from the sky, but from Anders, hands outstretched as it poured from his fingertips

The darkspawn was beginning to smoke when Anders dropped his arms, spent. The queen knelt behind Mhairi. She had been the one to drag Mhairi out of range of the mage's attack. Mhairi picked up her sword and sprang forward to where the darkspawn was wobbling on its feet. With one strong swing and a yell, Mhairi cleaved its head from its shoulders.

Mhairi breathed heavily, her exhaustion weighing on her, and the world came rushing back. It was over, she saw, looking around at her companions. They had won. None but darkspawn had fallen. Willem was at the queen's side, her mabari as well, as she checked on the seneschal. Zevran paced around to the darkspawn bodies, ensuring that they were dead and Oghren leaned against his axe. Anders approached Mhairi, shaking his hands in an odd manner and Mhairi realized there were still little sparks of lightning jumping between his fingers.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am now," Mhairi replied truthfully. As all right as she would be, at any rate.

"-owe you my life for this most timely rescue," Seneschal Varel was saying as Mhairi and Anders approached.

"You may repay me by giving me a full accounting of the situation here," the queen replied.

"Of course," Seneschal Varel said, though he seemed distracted, staring out into the distance. The reason why became apparent when Mhairi followed his gaze. Below, close but still a little ways away, two columns of men were marching, their plate armor shining in the moonlight.

"Soldiers on the road," Seneschal Varel confirmed. "I hope this company is more hospitable than our previous guests."

"It is my procession," the queen said and Mhairi looked closer until she saw what the queen did. Tiny, but unmistakable, the golden banner holding the standard of House Theirin. "We will speak on the way to meet them."

The descent back through the keep was unpleasant. The dead still lay where they fell or had been arranged by darkspawn. Mhairi looked away when they passed Rowland's body. Nola and Leland met them halfway through their trek and the rest was improved for it. The darkspawn had retreated after the death of their leader and the other wings of the keep were nowhere near as badly hit as where the Wardens had been.

Mhairi only half-listened as Nola and Leland joined in Seneschal Varel's reporting, offering what they knew and elaborating the endings where he knew only the beginnings. Outside was better as well, the darkspawn bodies had been arranged into a heap and were already burning. The fallen soldiers were lined up near the makeshift aid station, awaiting proper pyres.

The queen did not stop there, however, and so neither did her ever-growing company. She headed towards the gate, where the soldiers they had seen from high up on the keep's walls were arriving. The mabari began barking excitedly and ran ahead. A few moments later the queen came to a sudden stop. So sudden, in fact, that Ser Willem nearly walked directly into her back. Then, without a word, she moved forward again. When Mhairi looked more closely at the men they were going to meet, she saw why.

The queen had been wrong. It was not her procession. They were royal guards all right, but at their head was a tall young man in gold-trimmed armor, his short red-blond hair tousled and sticking up at odd angles. The queen's mabari danced up on its hind legs, still barking, as it attempted to lick him. The grin that graced his handsome face was one Mhairi remembered well from the occasions on which he had walked among the ranks of his knights, greeting them personally.

"King Alistair," Mhairi gasped.

"Looks like I'm late!" the king exclaimed. "Too bad, I rather miss this whole darkspawn-fighting thing." He succeeded in prying the mabari off of him just as the queen approached. With great regality, as though she were wearing a fine silk dress instead of dirty, bloody, and battered armor, the queen dropped into a perfect curtsey.

The king took her hand in his as she rose and Mhairi, Seneschal Varel, Ser Willem, and the rest of the guards all knelt.

"And what of you, dear wife? I see you are not too badly injured," King Alistair said.

"You know me better than that, dear husband," the queen replied evenly.

The king laughed.

"Of course. I am a lucky man to have married an indestructible goddess such as yourself." He purred out the words, jocular as always.

Beside Mhairi, Anders was still standing. He stared at the king and queen, face screwed up in consternation.

"She really is the queen?" he asked incredulously of no one in particular.

Mhairi shushed him, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into a kneel.

"I caught up with your procession and Ser Perth told me you had gone ahead," said King Alistair to Queen Brighid. His soldiers all stood at attention behind him. "So, I thought I'd catch up with you. Then we ran into the fellow you sent back and he told us of the attack. So, I thought I'd catch up with you even quicker."

He looked intently at the queen and for a moment Mhairi thought she could see every emotion he had ever felt for the woman on his face. Mhairi remembered her own long-ago engagement—a betrothal at sixteen to a merchant she barely knew. She still had no interest in marriage and there was nothing in the world that could have stopped her from running away to the army. But if he had looked at her like that, perhaps she would have felt a little badly about it.

The queen's face was unreadable.

"And yet you seem to have forgotten your horse," she said. Mhairi thought she might actually be teasing.

"Oh, don't start," the king replied waving a hand. "Besides, you seem to have forgotten most of your guard."

"Don't _you_ start," the queen said.

The king opened his mouth to retort, then seemed finally to notice the group of people past the queen's shoulder.

"Well, that was rather rude of me," he mumbled. "Come on, all of you, get up. None of that."

He waved his hands to punctuate this and they obeyed.

"Zevran," the king said perfunctorily in the elf's direction.

"King Alistair," Zevran replied.

"Oghren! Is that you back there?"

The dwarf grunted as the queen waved the seneschal forward.

"This is Seneschal Varel," she said. "We have much to talk about."

"I bet," the king replied, sighing.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The next few hours were a study in surreality. Mhairi and the others hung back as Seneschal Varel and the queen explained the goings-on at the keep to King Alistair. The man seemed even more shocked and put-out than his wife had been, though that could have been owed to his far more expressive nature. When the seneschal reported that the Wardens who were not dead had been taken by the darkspawn, the king's expression grew cold.

"The women," he said, not asking, and Mhairi shuddered to think of why he seemed so sure.

But the queen contradicted him. When she explained that there had only been three female Wardens among the Orlesians and all of their bodies accounted for he looked surprised, then confused. They traded meaningful looks, but said no more on the subject. At least not in Mhairi's hearing. Not long after that, the queen's procession arrived and Ser Perth received a much abbreviated recounting of events. Then, the queen and the seneschal set themselves to organizing the chaos at the keep.

The Wardens and recruits were hardest hit and though the soldiers had taken significant losses, two-thirds of those stationed at the keep were still alive and mostly well. Most of the villagers had barricaded themselves in their homes and been left alone for it. The darkspawn were primarily interested in the keep. And in the Wardens.

Things had gone better in other parts of the Vigil. Workers, craftsmen, servants, and other inhabitants had been protected by the soldiers. Among the civilians was a pair of dwarves. One was a stone mason and the other was the one Mhairi had seen before the explosion. The bombs were of his own creation. There was even another mage. This one was a liaison from the Circle of Magi, escorted by a single templar. Mhairi thought of Anders and, studying the woman's stern face, she was glad that he was relatively hidden away doing what he could for the injured. If the templars looked that way at their wholly lawful—even esteemed—charges she did not wish to imagine what ire was directed at an apostate like Anders.

The most immediate task was clearing out the dead and cleaning, repairing, and otherwise righting the damage that had been caused in the attack. Even the king stripped out of his armor and put himself to work. Mhairi could not tell whether the queen was chagrined or amused to see him hauling lumber to shore up broken doors and righting overturned furniture. The king, for his part, seemed perfectly pleased with the situation.

Mhairi went herself to help collect Rowland's body and the bodies of her other compatriots. What few survivors they found in other parts of the keep were rushed off to be tended. Mhairi did not try to follow. She had no desire to watch any more death that night. When the burning pyres were the amongst the only light being cast on the starless night, Mhairi was summoned into the great hall.

The hall was largely untouched by the battle. While the servants had been preparing it for the queen's arrival over the last few weeks it had not been in use. Now it bustled with activity. A fire had been lit in the large brazier in the center of the room and the queen's mabari lay near it, snoozing. King, queen, and seneschal stood at the far end of the room, just in front of the great chair affixed to the dais, its back carved with a pair of growling dogs. Servants, soldiers, and workmen ran in and out and to and fro, reporting to and being commanded by the trio. Ser Willem stood in a nearby corner. Zevran leaned against the wall near the large cask of ale stores, speaking quietly to Oghren. For once, the cup the dwarf kept taking draughts from did not seem to provide him any satisfaction. It had not occurred to Mhairi to wonder after his whereabouts when she hadn't seen him about. He must have been in the hall for hours, and he seemed very agitated by it. Mhairi moved towards the queen and company and stood just off, waiting to be instructed.

They still discussed repairs and the outlook for the Vigil's upkeep. The queen's posture was tensed and with her armor off and in her stained and ruined tunic, she looked weary. Weary and quite unhappy. She stopped a young girl carrying bandages into an adjacent room and intoned brief instructions to her. The girl ran off. The queen rejoined the conversation between king and seneschal, smoothing her hair back before placing both her hands on her hips.

"Four survivors and five total is not going to be sufficient if the darkspawn are still capable of launching attacks like this," the queen said.

"You did defeat the archdemon with only three Wardens," Seneschal Varel reminded her.

"Well, I didn't do it for fun and it's certainly not an experience I would wish to repeat," she replied.

Seneschal Varel looked mildly chastened. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"What about the rest of the soldiers?" King Alistair asked. "We might be able to scrape up a few more recruits amongst them."

Queen Brighid shook her head. "The Wardens have been making base here for over a month, the call for recruits went out months before that. We can make clear that we're in need, but I doubt anyone who's fit and willing and _here_ wasn't already picked out."

It was true. About fifteen of the recruits had been from the Vigil. The rest of the soldiers were admiring, but kept their distance. In the wake of the Blight, people had lost so much already. Not many were willing to give up more to become a Warden. The discussion carried on for a few minutes and as it did, Mhairi noticed that Zevran's quiet talking to Oghren had become an urgent whisper.

"Shut it!" Oghren grunted, before bodily shoving the elf away from him and marching towards the queen's group. Zevran followed him and shot what might have been a warning look at the king.

"Enough talk!" Oghren growled. "What the sod am I? Rotted nug livers? You say you need Wardens, I'm here to be one! It ain't complicated. So get the sodding mumbo-jumbo ritual started already!"

The king looked as if he might say something or even reach for his wife. Before he could the queen whirled on the dwarf, eyes narrowed and her patience clearly long worn away.

"You wish to be a Warden and yet you fail entirely at abiding the very simple order to stand and wait as you were told!"

Mhairi had not heard the queen raise her voice in anger before and she did not particularly want to again.

"Wait for what?" Oghren growled back. "You lot to sit there and jaw about finding recruits when I already told you I'd sign up?"

"It may seem foreign to you, Oghren," said the queen, "But sometimes patience and self-restraint are asked of us. Given that you are incapable of exercising the most _basic_ degree of either, you prove only that your being a Warden is an even more monstrously terrible idea than it immediately appeared. And that is saying _quite a lot_."

Silence fell across the room. Then Oghren snorted.

"Sod it," he said. "I don't need this."

He turned to go, but the king called after him.

"Oghren, if you're looking for something to do," King Alistair said. "I could always use more soldiers. Go find my guard captain and tell him I sent you. He'll get you set up."

The dwarf looked back at the king for a long moment, then broke into a smile.

"You'll regret that offer," he said.

The king shook his head. "I have no doubt."

Once Oghren passed through the doors, the room let out the collective breath it had been holding and the flurry of movement returned.

"You're too hard on him," the king said to the queen.

"You know how little I like agreeing with your husband," said Zevran. "But I am afraid I must in this regard. He could have been useful."

Queen Brighid was unmoved.

"We slogged through the Deep Roads with that foul, little man for over a month. He and I have spent more than enough time in life together. We are quite finished."

"You do realize he will technically be pledged to your service fairly soon," King Alistair pointed out.

"And whose fault is that?" the queen replied, sending him a cutting look. "As soon as we finished with that bloody Anvil, I left him in Orzammar where he belongs. _You_ just keep him out of Denerim."

The king sighed and shook his head.

"Er, Your Majesty…?" Anders stood near the door to the adjacent room from which he had been summoned. Mhairi would have wondered how long he'd been waiting there, but his care with addressing the queen made her think that it had at least been long enough to witness her loss of temper.

"Come here, Anders," the queen commanded with a sharp gesture in front of her, but when the mage approached the line between her brows her softened somewhat.

"Of the four surviving Warden recruits," Anders reported. "I am afraid two of them are beyond my aid. The other two can be saved, but…"

The queen shot him an impatient look and he continued in a rush.

"They are gravely injured, my lady, and we were a long time getting to them. Not that it is anyone's fault in particular, but their convalescence will likely be lengthy even with my assistance."

"And in any case, none of them are in any condition to attempt the Joining," the queen finished for him.

"I don't imagine so," Anders replied and he looked genuinely apologetic.

Mhairi stood, allowing this to sink in as Anders reported in more specific detail on the individual recruits' conditions. They had all known it was a dangerous path. Not just dedicating the rest of one's life to battling the darkspawn, but even the trials to become a Grey Warden were spoken of in whispers and reported in rumors. Many, it was said, did not live through it. But Mhairi would never have suspected that of all her compatriots she would stand last and alone to make the attempt.

The main door of the great hall opened again, pulling Mhairi from her morbid contemplation. The mage liaison entered, likely called there by the king and queen. There was, as Mhairi understood, a magical element to the preparations for the Joining. That was probably one of the mage's primary duties as a servant to the Grey Wardens. Mhairi, however, tensed to see the templar trailing behind her.

Anders was still deep in conversation with the queen and no one else seemed to recognize the danger. Mhairi moved closer to Anders. The templar had just passed the brazier when her eyes fell on the apostate.

"Your Majesty!" she yelled, drawing her sword.

In a blink, Ser Willem was standing, his own shield and sword drawn, between the templar and the queen.

"That man is a dangerous criminal," the templar explained, scowling at Willem as he kept her three yards away from the object of her disdain.

Anders sighed heavily. Mhairi noted recognition in his eyes as he looked at his accuser. The king looked back and forth between Anders and the templar.

"What's going on?" King Alistair asked. The queen opened her mouth to speak, but the templar yelled over her. Queen Brighid's eyes widened, then narrowed. She clearly was not used to being interrupted.

"He is an apostate!" the templar exclaimed. "The men who captured him stopped here for rest before their journey back to the Circle Tower to see him brought to justice."

"Oh, come off it, Rylock. The things you people know about justice would fit in a thimble!" Anders declared. His face was set in a scowl. Anger looked strange on him.

"I will see you hanged, murderer!" Rylock said and then to the king: "Six men captured him and now they all lie dead, some of them burned beyond recognition by his unholy power."

"Are you saying that you think I-" Ander began, but the king's voice boomed suddenly over his.

"Enough," he declared with more authority than Mhairi had heard him bring to bear in some time. King Alistair had inspired armies in the most dire of circumstances, but he was usually mild, a spark of playfulness evident in his demeanor even in serious times.

"Is this true," he asked Anders. "Are you an apostate?" The king's gaze darted towards the queen momentarily.

"Yes, I am an apostate," Anders said. His voice was empty and cold. A wall had slammed down between him and the rest of the world.

"And did you kill the men that this templar claims you did?"

Mhairi waited for the denial, but Anders simply shrugged.

"It does not matter," he replied quietly. "No one will believe me anyway."

The king looked at him, almost entreatingly, but Anders did not appear to see.

"Well, then," the king said. "It seems there isn't much to say." Another meaningful look passed between him and the queen and she crossed her arms.

"Yes, there is," she said. "I hereby conscript this mage into the Grey Wardens."

"What?" Anders breathed at the same time that Rylock yelled, "No! Never!"

The templar attempted to move forward, but Willem blocked her path.

"The Wardens still retain the right of conscription, last I checked. I will allow it," the king said. "And, were I you, ser templar, I would keep a mind of whom I addressed in that tone."

Rylock clenched her teeth so tightly that Mhairi expected to hear them crack, then said, "If you think it is best, my king." She turned towards the queen. "And many apologies for my impertinence, Your Majesty."

"You are dismissed," the queen replied. The templar bowed, then stormed from the room.

"Enchanter," the queen said, now addressing the Circle mage. The woman had watched the proceedings in silence, though she eyed Anders speculatively. "Everything you need is in the next room. Please prepare the Joining."

"It will be done, Your Majesty." The mage disappeared through the door opposite of the one from which Anders had emerged.

"Well, Mhairi," the queen said. "It seems you will not be entirely alone."

"Am I truly to become a Grey Warden?" Anders asked, awe in his voice.

The king smiled. "My wife doesn't tend to joke about things like that."

"Congratulations, ser mage, I look forward to fighting beside you," Mhairi said and meant it. Anders gave her a lopsided smile.

"While Your Majesties see to this important business," Seneschal Varel spoke up. "I will continue administrating the repairs if that is acceptable."

"It is, Seneschal," the queen replied. The seneschal inclined his head respectfully and went to cut off a soldier and an older woman before they could take their business to the royals.

Whatever magic was required to facilitate the Joining was either not terribly complicated or very well-practiced by the Circle mage, as she reappeared moments later. Just as the king was rather blatantly poking at Ser Willem.

"You know, Willem," he said. "You're going to have an awful crick in your back if you don't loosen up juuuust a tad."

The young knight flushed, his face pink, but otherwise remained as stock still and tense as ever.

"It is done," the mage reported. The queen nodded and then she and the king led Mhairi and Anders towards the room. Willem positioned himself to one side of the door and Zevran leaned against the door jamb on the other side.

"Are you sure you won't be convinced to take the plunge, Zev?" King Alistair asked as he passed, the lilt of his voice indicating an old joke.

Zevran affected an expression of great regret. "I apologize, my friend, but I must decline, as ever."

However, when the door closed behind them, all levity was left on the opposite side. They stood in a small study. On the desk in one corner sat a large silver chalice. It was filled nearly to the brim with a dark, ominous liquid and Mhairi felt that just the look of it confirmed at least one of the rumors. King Alistair and Queen Brighid stood tall and austere and looked at Mhairi and Anders. She tried to adjust herself to the idea that she was about to be put through the Joining ritual by the King and Queen of Ferelden, but no matter how she turned it over in her head, it did not seem like it could be real.

"What do you know of the Joining, Mhairi?" the queen asked.

Mhairi hesitated. They were not meant to know anything. The queen sensed the reason for her hesitation and waved a hand.

"There were only three recruits at my Joining and still there were rumors. Do not be coy," she said.

"In the chalice," Mhairi said. "It is darkspawn blood."

"And we are expected to drink it?" Anders asked, making a face.

"I am afraid so," said the king.

"To become a Grey Warden," the queen said. "You must take the darkspawn Taint into yourself and master it. If you manage to, you will be immune to it ever after. It is the source of our power, our ability to sense the darkspawn. It is the only way."

"What else do you know, Mhairi?" the king urged and Mhairi knew at what he hinted.

She looked at Anders, who watched her expectantly.

"Many do not survive," Mhairi said. "The Taint kills them instantly."

"It also hurts. A lot," the king said wryly.

"It is too late to turn back," Queen Brighid said looking at both recruits.

"I have awaited this moment," Mhairi declared. "I have no desire to turn back."

Anders looked contemplative, at the cup, at the king and queen, and then finally at Mhairi. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, resolved.

"Oh, why not?" he said with a shrug.

The king let out a breath he had been holding and tension Mhairi had only just noticed in the queen's bearing relaxed slightly.

"Normally, recruits are sent on an outing to collect the darkspawn blood personally," said the queen. "But I believe the two of you have slaughtered enough darkspawn that we can let that technicality pass."

Queen Brighid picked up the chalice in both hands as the king spoke in reverent tones.

"Then, the time has come for us to begin the Joining. We do not say much, but Brighid shall speak the words that have been said since the first."

Mhairi's first thought was that it was strange to hear the queen referred to so informally, but she waved that away and listened to the woman's words.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you."

The queen offered the chalice first to Anders who giggled nervously.

"If I wake up a week from now in the cargo hold of a ship bound for the Anderfels in nothing but my smallclothes with tattoo on my forehead, I'm blaming you, Your Majesties," he said before leaning forward and allowing the queen to raise the chalice to his lips and tilt a sizable swallow down his throat.

"From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden," the queen said.

Anders coughed once and wiped his mouth. His face contorted into a rictus of pain and he screamed as he grasped at his sides, doubling over. Then, his spine straightened and he threw his head back as though he were staring at something that only he could see. When Mhairi looked at his face, terrified in her concern, his eyes were clouded over white and for a moment they glowed. He went limp and Mhairi lunged to catch him. He flopped, completely boneless, into her arms and she lay him gently on the floor.

The king put a hand on Mhairi's shoulder.

"He's fine," King Alistair said. "He'll wake up."

Mhairi straightened and met the queen's hard gaze.

"From this moment forth, Mhairi," the queen said as she offered Mhairi the chalice. "You are a Grey Warden."

The concoction tasted like bile and burned down her throat. Then, suddenly, through her veins. Mhairi did not want to scream, but she had never known such agony. She felt as though she were burning up from the inside out and she fell to her hands and knees hard. Tears brimmed in her eyes and she retched. The pool of blood on the floor was far more than she had ingested. She looked up at the king and queen, her vision going red, then black at the edges. The king bowed his head, but the queen did not relent her solemn stare.

Mhairi fell, rolling onto her back, body spasming. Then she knew no more.

* * *

**Author's Note:** When I finished the prologue portion of Awakenings, I remember going directly to **swooping_is_bad** LJ and posting in the spoiler thread that I was disproportionately angry about Mhairi's death. Obviously, it's the Bioware way to give you an early red shirt party member. I took special exception to Mhairi because 1) I liked her, 2) her death left my party with way too many dicks on the dance floor until I could complete some of the main missions, and 3) she was the first and only female warrior permanent companion out of the 17 possible permanent companions in Dragon Age: Origins and the Awakening expansion pack.

As I first tossed around ideas of what I would do in this fic, a persistent one was to have Mhairi survive the Joining. But it was pretty immediately obvious to me that I wouldn't be able to do that in this particular project. If Mhairi survived, this would became a Mhairi Lives AU instead of just an Awakenings playthrough fic and there was no way with everything that already needed to happen and that I had already planned that I would be able to give Mhairi the focused attention she would deserve in such a situation. Basically, to write a fic in which Mhairi lived but nothing was drastically changed because of this—outside of her tagging along for the duration—would be lazy AUing. And my PhD in AUology makes me constitutionally incapable of lazy AUing. Which is not to say that I will never write any other much shorter fics about Mhairi or taking place in a universe in which Mhairi does indeed survive (and probably makes out with Anders) because I likely will. They're just not this fic. I did decide as a compromise with myself, because again disproportionate anger, that the least that I could do was to tell as much of Mhairi's story as possible in this fic--to make her loss felt. It ended up taking me 15,000 words, but I hope I succeeded!


	5. Chapter 5

Part One: The Arlessa of Amaranthine

**5**

Brighid stared down at Mhairi's body for a long moment—unwelcome tightness in the back of her throat—then turned and did not look back. She threw open the door and Willem jumped. Zevran looked at her curiously, but she strode back into the great hall without a word. Knight trotted up to meet her. She did not have to glance behind her to know that Alistair had fixed her with wide eyes full of concern. But she was not Duncan, to become overly attached to her recruits, to begin to think of her favorites like children. For one, Mhairi had likely been Brighid's senior by at least half a decade and, for another, Brighid made it her business to choose practicality over sentiment in virtually every situation presented her. Warden recruits died in the Joining, that was the way of it. Weeping about it would change nothing and was undignified besides.

"Varel," she called and the seneschal quickly finished his instructions to a workman and met her in front of the dais. "Have men remove Anders to lodgings and leave him there. He will not wake for hours yet."

Varel nodded.

"And have them make sure that Mhairi's pyre burns near the rest of the Wardens and that her ashes are spread with theirs."

Surprise, then sadness, registered on the seneschal's face.

"Oh, poor Mhairi," he muttered.

A hand came to rest lightly at the small of Brighid's back and she did not turn to look at Alistair as he moved to her side. Brighid had given up trying to instruct him on appropriate ways to touch her in public months ago. His application of his learning was ever inconsistent and they both knew—as entertaining as the lessons sometimes were—he had much more pressing things to study.

"What else is on the agenda, Seneschal?" Alistair asked before Brighid could.

Varel breathed deeply and looked indescribably weary.

"Many things, Your Majesty, but…if I may make a suggestion?"

"Out with it," Brighid commanded.

"The midnight hour has come and gone. The patrols are going again," he said. "And most everyone, servants, workmen, have taken to sleeping in shifts so that repairs can continue unabated. I think that you, my king and my queen, should also consider retiring for the night. Her Majesty especially has had a trying day."

Brighid had easily been through far more trying days, weeks, and months, and she was still alert and focused, blood pumping swiftly through her veins.

"Yet you have just spoken of the many things that need to be done," Brighid pointed out.

"It is true, but there will be just as many to be done tomorrow and more, and I think it would be best if you were well-rested for them, my lady," Varel replied.

"I agree with Varel," Alistair said, cutting off what would have been Brighid's final protest before she proceeded in doing what she wished. "You have fought hard, not to mention been traveling for days, my love."

Brighid eyed him, her expression warning, but Alistair only smiled. It figured that he had learned _that_ lesson well. Arguing publicly, even in polite tones, made them seem divisible and thus weak. There had been enough power struggles and puppet monarchs. Ferelden needed united rulers. Alistair and Brighid had much ground to cover when it came to fixing that image in the people's minds over the impression made by the circumstances of their ascent to power and the memory of their predecessors. In front of Seneschal Varel in the middle of a half-ruined keep in Amaranthine was no court in Denerim, but laxity anywhere could lead to a bad habit.

"Of course," Brighid said, baring her teeth. "You are very right, husband."

Brighid adjusted her mental itinerary as Varel waved over a passing servant girl and instructed her to take Brighid to the rooms prepared for her. While she wished to get as much as possible done as _soon_ as possible, she was forced to admit—if only to herself—that she and Alistair did have things to discuss.

"Send a message to my procession and inform my handmaidens as to the location of my lodgings," Brighid told Varel before following the girl. Willem hovered nearby and Brighid gestured negligently.

"You are dismissed for the night, Willem. Go find Perth," she said and the young man gave a grudging nod.

"And take off that armor," Brighid added. "My bones are beginning to ache just looking at you."

Willem bowed and scurried off. Out of his armor, Brighid's expected that his injured shoulder would probably be swollen enough to make Perth force both a poultice and rest on him.

Alistair still walking at her right, Zevran slid up on her left side.

"No orders for me, dear queen?" he asked. She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Varel seems a good enough sort," she said shrugging, but with her voice low enough not to carry to the girl who still walked ahead of them. "If you like, make sure that is the case."

Zevran hummed thoughtfully. "By what method shall I do so?" he mused.

"A non-lethal one," Alistair mumbled, though it was pointed enough to make clear that he meant to be heard.

"What do you take me for?" Zevran asked with feigned affront as he left them.

Alistair rolled his eyes. It was just for show. It was true that her husband was still sporadically…discomfited by Zevran's role in their lives. But he had largely come to terms with it since Brighid had announced to him after his coronation that the Antivan intended to remain in Denerim. It had never been jealousy—so Alistair swore and Brighid mostly believed him—and Zevran had faced the archdemon with them, among many other horrors, even after he did not strictly have to anymore. So, it was not distrust. Though he would likely never admit it, it was not even dislike for Zevran as a person. It was simply that as much as Alistair understood the necessity that a king (and a queen) had for a man of Zevran's skills, part of him would always find it distasteful. Zevran had been a good friend and a fine source of information and advice in the months of their reign, and they had yet to actually make direct use of his assassin's training. But Alistair clearly knew as well as Brighid did that one day they probably would.

The corridors were crowded. Knight caused no shortage of surprised yelps and respectful caution as he weaved around legs. Some recognized Brighid and Alistair and paused to bow or otherwise pay obeisance, but most were concerned with their own duties. The section of the keep the servant led them to was not far off from the great hall. Like the hall, it was uninhabited and so had been little touched by the darkspawn. No stalwart, young knights with hope in their eyes and awe in their voices had died here. They walked past only a few doors before the girl came to a stop and produced a key which she fitted into the lock.

The room was quite large. Marks on the stone floor indicated that some of the furniture had recently been replaced. A half-wall concealed a washroom with a large tub. It was very well-appointed, but clearly not the most luxurious there was to offer. It was meant for an honored guest, but not the master of the keep. Seneschal Varel, it seemed, was wise enough not to put Brighid in chambers that had belonged to the former arl.

Alistair, with barely a care for the servant girl still standing at the threshold, began kicking off his boots.

"That will be all," Brighid said to the girl, who bowed before running off. Knight walked about carefully, sniffing at the floor. When he looked up at her, Brighid raised one arm and pointed firmly towards the door.

The mabari whined piteously and Brighid shook her head.

"Don't even think it," she said and the hound barked his objection, but trotted out the door anyway. He plopped himself down in front of it. Brighid closed it behind him, then turned to face her husband. Alistair was inspecting the washroom. Brighid moved swiftly across the room and placed her hands on his shoulders before backing him against the wall and kissing him thoroughly.

His lips parted immediately beneath hers and he insinuated his tongue into her mouth. He rubbed her shoulders gently as she pressed herself closer to him, then his hands slid up to hold the nape of her neck, thumbs on her cheeks when she pulled away.

"You are supposed to be in the Bannorn," she said pointing a finger at him. It hovered an inch in front of his nose and he briefly crossed his eyes looking at it before leaning forward and kissing the tip.

"Did you just up and leave an hour after I did?" she asked, removing her finger from his reach by balling her hand into a fist at her side.

"No!" he said, then again drawing out the vowel. "I waited an entire day! And technically, I am not scheduled to arrive until next week at least."

"And what did Eamon have to say?" Brighid asked. She stressed his name in a way that she knew Alistair consistently did his best to ignore.

"He said nothing, because I did not tell him, exactly," Alistair said as he made to unbelt her tunic. "He thinks I just left early for the Bannorn."

Brighid slapped his hands away, but then removed the belt herself. Her words were still firm, however.

"You are king; he is but your chancellor. You have no need to hide from him like a guilty child."

"I know, I know," Alistair said, making a face. Brighid sighed, then kissed him again.

The king's chancellor and one-time caretaker was a deft politician and generally offered wise counsel. More than that, he and his brother Teagan had provided Brighid and Alistair invaluable assistance when they'd had titles, but few armies to defend them. Arl Eamon cared for Alistair, in his way, but above all he cared for the Theirin bloodline. He made a good effort to hide it, but he also did not like Brighid. She had once gone to great pains to save his life and that of his child, but it had come at a cost Eamon could not accept: the life of his wife. He respected her and knew her to be formidable, but Brighid was aware of the things he had ultimately whispered into the ear of Alistair's half-brother, Cailan, the previous king, and could guess at the hopes he had for Alistair. Alistair who was no longer as easily guided as Eamon likely expected when he put him forth for the throne, but who was absolutely devoted to his queen. One day, Brighid and Eamon would be enemies, of this she was sure. It was, however, a difficult conversation for Alistair and one she was little more interested in having just then than he.

Alistair's arms encircled her waist and he moved away from the wall, walking her backwards in the direction of the bed. He released her long enough to tug her tunic over her head. Then he stilled, his eyes caught on the bandage around her arm as she worried at the laces on his pants.

"I do wish I had gotten here sooner still, though," he said quietly.

"It's only a scratch," Brighid said and gave his pants a hard tug. "I'm fine." She did not mention that she had also wished he was there in the moment she'd gotten the wound.

"Yes, you are," he agreed and this time his voice was low for a different reason entirely.

She'd gotten his pants and smallclothes down his hips, and he worked himself the rest of the way out of them as Brighid sat on the bed then reclined back on her elbows. Alistair grinned wolfishly as he tugged her boots off and tossed them over his shoulder one after the other, then all but pounced on her.

He had been this way for weeks since their wedding and Brighid could acknowledge that she had equalled his fervor. Alistair had always been extremely enthusiastic. Morrigan—and there was that dull, distant ache to think of the woman, her friend, now six months disappeared—had often said he was akin to a slobbering beast in heat and wondered, usually loudly and within Alistair's hearing, how Brighid could stand it. However accurate a description it was or was not, all of that had been put to a sudden, abrupt stop soon after his coronation.

They were formally engaged. He was the king, and she, once again, a Cousland of Highever. Grey Wardens, itinerant adventurers along long dusty roads and often in disreputable company, could carry on however they wished. High nobility was not so lucky. Brighid had rooms in the palace. They were not the queen's rooms then, conveniently connected directly to the king's, but fully separate. Not so far away, but far enough. At first, they had engaged both duplicity and stealth to have their way whenever they could manage. But a few weeks in, a page had walked in on them in an antechamber. Their ruse was too effective, the page none too bright, and Brighid's face not especially visible from the page's vantage point before he immediately ran off. As a result, within hours it was reported throughout half of Denerim that the king was carrying on with a mystery woman while his betrothed was at the other end of the palace being fitted for dresses all morning.

A reputation as a philanderer—a graceless and indiscreet one at that—was a dangerous thing for a king to have. Particularly when he had yet to produce an heir. It was the very opposite of Alistair's nature, but being a bastard himself and a largely unknown quantity, people were quite ready to believe any snippet of information they could obtain. Zevran had advised that they allow themselves to be caught again, but in a position that made Brighid's identity unmistakable. Alistair, however, would not even look at Zevran's illustrated suggestions. It would have been unwise to leave it lie, though. Rumors left untended had a tendency to grow and evolve. They wished to avoid a future in which some ambitious person pulled a child from obscurity that resembled Alistair just enough to catch the eye and began making claims.

The ultimate solution had been a very public and very penitent trip to the Grand Cleric by the King and his betrothed to confess to their now well-known sin against the chastity of betrothal. They supplicated themselves, did penance, and were forgiven and blessed. Had their embarrassment been less genuine, the ploy might have been less effective. Luckily, no one who saw their king blushing bright red from his hairline down to his neck could have believed that he would be capable of going about with multiple women. Indeed, no small number became somewhat incredulous that he'd done anything untoward even with his future bride. Though not out of piety, as the Grand Cleric would have wished, Alistair and Brighid did keep their hands to themselves from then until their wedding night—nearly four months later.

Alistair referred to their highly frequent exertions after that as "making up lost ground" and they evidently had not caught up by the time Brighid left for Vigil's Keep.

The remainder of their clothing discarded, Alistair kissed Brighid's stomach softly, making a circle around her navel. She gasped and her stomach jumped as his stubble scratched against her skin. He chuckled and she bent her knees, propping her legs apart. Her right knee rocked back and forth and Alistair stilled it with one hand, pressed a kiss to her thigh just above it. She curled her toes as he worked his way up. Then, she drew a deep breath and held it as he brought his mouth to her center. His tongue swept against her and she exhaled in one great gust before clamping her teeth down on her bottom lip.

The first few times Alistair had done this she'd been very vocal. Disruptively so to their traveling companions, it turned out. Of course, after discovering that particular technique and both of their reactions to it, he had no intention of ever relenting. If Alistair wanted to spend an inordinate amount of time with her legs wrapped around his neck, Brighid wasn't going to be the one to complain. Instead, Brighid directed her focus towards methods of lowering her volume. It wasn't necessary anymore, but old habits were not easy to break.

She sank her fingers into his hair—grown slightly longer in the last few months—and pulled as his head bobbed between her legs. Brighid's hips jerked involuntarily. Alistair didn't even pause to let her catch her quickened breath. He just shifted closer, one broad shoulder pressed against the underside of her thigh, her foot grazing his spine. When she pressed herself against him again, he held her still with a hand clamped on her hip, his tongue relentlessly circling the perfect spot. Brighid threw her forearm over her face and could taste the salt on her own skin when she muffled the yell as her body stretched taut like a bowstring, then snapped.

Alistair rubbed her leg soothingly, then pressed one last kiss to sensitive flesh before lifting his head. He crawled his way up her body while she was still shaking, trying to steady her breathing, and he peered down at her. His mouth shined in the scant light. She could feel his own arousal brush heavy against her stomach. She rolled her hips lazily into his as he attempted to position himself. The friction was a fine sort of its own, but not what he truly wished for and Brighid laughed as he groaned and his eyes rolled back.

"You are a wicked woman," he growled, clutching at her hip once again to hold her still. His thumb pressed into her skin. She did not deny it and kissed him instead, nipping at his lips as he slid forward, joining them. She clenched her thighs at his waist, holding him in place for a long moment as she enjoyed the feeling of being stretched and full. He dabbed kisses along her neck, her collarbone, and Brighid's skin tingled. She released her grip just enough so that he could move and arched her back as he began to rock against her.

He went slow and steady and Brighid angled her hips to best effect and then let her eyes slip closed. She brought her hands up to smooth along his back, feeling the muscles working under the skin, and sometimes pricking him with her nails. They alternated between times like this and frenzies of pulling and grasping, jerking and thrusting. That came instinctually, swift and reckless. This was the result of long practice, carefully drawing pleasure from each other in a torturous stretch until they were spent and insensate. Brighid opened her eyes just enough to see his face so that she could press kisses to it, before burying her own face in the curve of his neck and clinging tight.

Some time later, they lay among the luxuriant bedding in comfortable silence. Alistair's fingers were tangled in her hair, long since let down from its bun. Alistair often stroked her hair softly afterwards, looking at her with a tenderness so open it nearly made her throat close up. His eyes drank her in as though she was cut open, inside out—vulnerable. He would persist until she flushed with irritation and rare embarrassment, at which point he pressed a kiss to her forehead, smiled, and ceased his staring. This night, however, in an old enemy's keep days away from their own bed, he was dozing contentedly.

Brighid lay her head on his chest and danced her fingers idly along his collarbones. Eventually, he opened his eyes and, after observing her for a moment, softly caressed her face.

"Your freckles are coming back," he said, with obvious delight.

"They never went anywhere."

"I beg to differ," Alistair replied, tracing a finger along her forehead, where she assumed a cluster of freckles had made itself apparent. "They'd gotten so light I could barely see them anymore. Even with all my…close study." The last two words rumbled in his chest.

"When we get back to Denerim, you really should get more sun."

Brighid snorted. "Yes, so that I can be splotchy and burned. We don't all just get golden brown in the sun like you, you know."

Faded freckles came from months locked up in the palace in Denerim, a life drastically different from two years of constant travel and living mostly out of a tent. For them, war and revolution happened on the road, but governing happened indoors. For all that he had embraced his new position—better than almost anyone thought he would, in fact—some part of Alistair still looked fondly on that time before. He romanticized it, thinking not of the death and the misery and the hardship, but of the rare pleasures and the things that had happened between them especially.

Her freckles coming back wasn't just an idle observation born of his penchant for cataloguing every detail of her body. To Alistair, it meant that she looked more like the girl he fell in love with.

"I think you could carry it off," Alistair insisted and he probably did think so.

Brighid let that lie and instead said, softly and without preamble: "I had a dream."

"Oh? I didn't know you'd slept." He smiled.

"On the road," she clarified. "We were older." But not very old. They would never be very old. "There was another Blight."

"Just a normal dream though?" he asked and she nodded. Their Warden dreams of the darkspawn had all but disappeared since they killed the archdemon. Earlier they had discussed their reduced ability to sense the darkspawn. They still couldn't decide whether it was related to the fading dreams or owed solely to some power of the talking one that led them.

"That would be just the way of it though, wouldn't it?" she said. "Everyone else gets four hundred years between and we'd get fifteen."

Alistair brought his arm up around her shoulders.

"You know, if you insist on being this dour afterwards, I'm going to start to worry about my performance."

Brighid rolled her eyes. "Of course you would worry over that and nothing else. Just to pester me."

She could feel his smile against her skin as he kissed her forehead.

"You do get such an adorable little wrinkle just here."

She exhaled slowly.

"Two weeks," she said. "This was supposed to take two weeks." She propped herself up on her elbow and faced him. Some of her hair slipped over her shoulder and pooled on his chest.

"It's not going to take two weeks," she told him seriously.

"I know."

Brighid pursed her lips. "I didn't want this. I came here to give it away."

"I know, my dear," he repeated and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I can stay."

"No you can't," she said flatly, flopping back down onto his arm and staring up at the canopy.

"No, I can't," he admitted. "But I will return as soon as I am able. I hate to leave you like this. All pouty. Though," he added, running his thumb along her bottom lip. "It is very cute."

He snatched his thumb back as Brighid made to bite it.

"You, ser, are insensible enough to believe that everything I do is cute," she accused.

"Well, string me up then!" he said. "What a criminal I am to be in love." He kissed her forehead again. "To appreciate what I have." Then her nose. "To worry." At this he pressed his lips gently against hers for a handful of breaths.

"I'll be fine, Alistair," she said.

"Don't I know it. A few more days though, perhaps?"

Brighid shook her head. "Varel is too good at his job. He'd already summoned the vassals in anticipation of my presumed arrival time. They should begin arriving tomorrow evening to swear fealty. And start making trouble." She sighed. "And unfortunately you looming about scaring them into cooperating would be unwise."

His grin was both crooked and brilliant.

"That powerful, authoritative, and intimidating am I?" he asked gleefully.

"You are the king," she reminded him, then shrugged one shoulder. "And they don't know you as well as I do."

"Oh, I am wounded," he said. Brighid beckoned him with one finger and when he leaned closer she kissed him again, running her tongue along his lower lip before releasing him.

"You will not always be here to bring your authority as king to bear," she said. "This arling needs to belong securely to the Wardens and the Wardens are whom they need to respect. Of course, I will not always be here to bring my authority as queen to bear, either." She shifted and pulled the bedding up over her head in her frustration.

"Ideally," she continued from under the blankets. "I would be proclaiming one of our fine new recruits the Warden-Commander and making sure that they adjusted to the senior Orlesian Warden as their second. Then I would be off and they would be the ones needing to worry about Howe's vassals bending to them."

"Well," Alistair said, voice slightly muffled by the barrier of the blanket. "If our lives were ideal…they wouldn't really be ours."

"Very encouraging," she replied wryly as he peeled the covers away from her face. "I'm the queen you know."

"I heard a rumor to that effect," he said. "Something about a massive and ridiculous royal wedding with a few _hours_ too many speeches and blessings. Oh right. I was there!"

"My point is," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "I already gained their fealty when I married you."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Now you really are just pouting."

Brighid could not truly argue the point so instead she said, "Shut up. I learned from the best. You could give Knight a lesson in puppy-dog face."

"Such unkind words. You will miss my puppy-dog face licking you when I leave tomorrow."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Brighid said waspishly, then: "What time will you go?"

"I expect that my procession should be reasonably well-rested and feeling less regicidal before noon. Though not too much before."

"Good," she said, slipping a bit further under the bedding.

"Good?" Alistair asked, but the end of the word came out in a gasp as, beneath the blankets, Brighid's grasping hand found purchase on its target.

"If you are leaving so late," she explained as she stroked him. "Then I do not have to feel guilty about the fact that you're not getting any sleep tonight."

"None at all?" he asked, his voice returned to him as she briefly released him so that she could straddle his thighs.

"Not a wink, I promise you," she said very seriously.

Alistair chuckled as he levered himself up on his elbows and gazed up at her.

"I am going to hold you to that, wife."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, husband."


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Late in the morning, the furor that claimed Vigil's Keep had not died down from the night before. Indeed, in Zevran's estimation it had only increased. He had allowed himself a private tour of the premises before he slept. Being an assassin himself, it was his nature to wish to be fully aware of all of the nooks and crevices out of which one of his trade might leap in an attempt on someone's life. It was easy enough to go largely unnoticed in the bustle. A lone elf, even one as attractive as himself, was already inclined to be overlooked, assumed a servant going about his chores.

Zevran woke just after dawn to overhear that the mage, Anders — now the third Grey Warden in all of Ferelden — was also awake. While the fact that he had been an apostate before being made a Warden had gotten around, no one seemed willing to disturb the queen in order to ask what exactly to do with him. So, after some hand-wringing, he'd just been allowed to wander about. From Zevran's brief and surreptitious study, Anders appeared to want little more than to charm some breakfast out of the kitchen staff and flirt with errant servant girls. Zevran could respect these choices and decided to let him be. There was a talk in the mage's near future where he would have the unhappy discovery of the particularly unpleasant parts of being a Grey Warden. He should enjoy himself before then.

Zevran knew well the two vital pieces of information that the Wardens kept from those who had not yet been Joined. Indeed, he could have told Anders himself about their connection to the darkspawn through the Taint and how it had the unfortunate side effect of overwhelming them within a few decades — their all-too-human bodies unable to withstand the poison for any longer than that. But it was not his place. Zevran was not meant to know any of this, not being a Warden, and he would not so casually betray his friends' confidence. And really, he was also not so cruel as to seek out the opportunity to tell anyone such things.

Instead, Zevran continued his investigation of Seneschal Varel who was, it turned out, every bit as upstanding as he initially seemed. Well-respected, competent, and very much dedicated to his job. Quite boring actually. Magnanimously, Zevran had decided to forgive him for that, at least enough to come when the seneschal put out the word that he was looking for him. It was unexpected, to say the least.

Zevran had no official title or station. He was good at being about but simultaneously keeping out of the way unless needed, and it was easiest to allow people to believe whatever they wished. Usually, what they wished to believe was that he was an unusually exotic attendant. Brighid's general demeanor, Maker bless her, was very good at discouraging any further inquiries.

Zevran walked into the great hall, which was now nearly empty. Tables were set out for the feast that would come that night, after the first of Amaranthine's vassals had sworn their fealty in ceremony. Varel waited for him near the door to the small study where Brighid and Alistair had performed the Joining the night before — which Zevran now realized, must be the seneschal's office. Unpleasant for him, Zevran thought, that death should have happened here. But then, death had happened many other places in this keep as well and the attack the night before had not been the first time. Vigil's Keep was practically built on a mountain of bones.

"Come in, please," Varel said and held the door open to allow Zevran in. The room had been cleaned, no trace left of where the lovely knight Mhairi had died. The chalice, empty and also cleaned, sat on a shelf.

He indicated that Zevran should sit and if Zevran had not already been aware that the seneschal knew he was no mere attendant, that would have sealed it. Not many were so courteous to any elf, much less one of little importance.

"You are her servant?" Varel asked directly after he had taken a seat as well.

"After a fashion," Zevran replied carefully. "She is the queen. We are all her servants, yes?"

Varel shifted in his chair. "I meant that… you serve her more directly than most."

Zevran smiled. "This is also true."

"Then perhaps you can help me. I have approached the captain of her guard, Ser Perth, but he was not at all forthcoming regarding… anything really."

"Ser Perth's purview is solely to protect the queen, and even then, only as far as she allows it. Anything he did know, he would never be at liberty to tell you."

"Of course, I understand," Varel said.

"But you believed that I-" Zevran began.

"I believed that your connection to the queen was more _personal_," Varel offered.

Zevran laughed. A sporadic, but always enjoyable, interpretation of Zevran's role in the Queen of Ferelden's life was that he was her lover. Alistair well hated it, which only made it all the more amusing to Zevran.

"So, you could say," he replied noncommittally.

Varel seemed mildly uncomfortable, but pressed on.

"I wish only to know whether the queen was badly injured in the fighting. She did not seem so, but I have seen many a warrior conceal the extent of their pain."

"No, not at all that I know of," Zevran answered seriously. "And, just between you and me, it is the sort of thing I make it my business to know."

Varel was visibly relieved. "Good then."

"Is there a particular reason you ask?"

"Well, there is a long day ahead; many long days," Varel explained. "And she is late rising. I worry that she is already exhausted."

Zevran grinned at this, and Varel eyed him curiously.

"Oh, I am quite sure that she is," Zevran said. "But it is a common state with a common cause and of no consequence."

"Just so?"

Zevran weighed his words before continuing. "The legend of our heroic monarchs has grown so much and so quickly that it is easy to lose sight of the humans behind them."

"I suppose that is true."

"These two humans I happen to know very well," Zevran said. "And most easily forgotten is that they are quite young and also, if you recall, quite newly wed."

Realization dawned on the seneschal. It was immediately followed by the attendant realization about what he had assumed and its swiftly shrinking likelihood.

"Just then, I did not mean to imply that-" he started, but Zevran waved his hand.

"No worries," he said. Then paused before leaning mildly closer. "You did not truly believe that Alistair left Denerim for the Bannorn and went nearly a week out of his way just to drop in and say a quick 'hello' to the Wardens, did you?"

This time it was the seneschal who smiled.

"Well, when you put it that way…" he said, trailing off.

"Seneschal," Zevran said after consideration. "As I have answered a question for you, would you mind terribly answering one for me?"

"Of course not," Varel replied easily.

"How bad do you think things will be here?" he asked, staring Varel directly in the eyes.

The seneschal was silent for a long moment, but did not break their eye contact.

"I believe that she can handle it," he said finally. "But I would not say the same of many others."

"I see." Zevran leaned back in his chair. "It is good then that she has such able assistance."

"I will do anything in my power to help her," Varel said. It was direct, forceful, but not at all defensive. He was as confident in his abilities as he was in Brighid's. Seneschal Varel might not have been as interesting as Zevran usually preferred his associates, but he would clearly be an asset.

Zevran smiled.

"I am sure that you will," he said casually, and it was not a dismissal.

The king and queen emerged just before noon.

Brighid was freshly attired, thanks to her attendants and much to Alistair's chagrin. She had warned him while he was swanning about after their bath. Still, he'd only just managed to dart under the covers as two of her maids entered bearing various toiletries and a selection of fresh clothing. Practice from the previous months enabled the young women to stifle giggles as their king peered out owlishly from beneath the bedding while their queen selected her ensemble. They disappeared, carrying away Brighid's dirty and ruined clothes from the night before, just as Alistair's own attendant appeared with replacements for him.

"You enjoy that, don't you?" Alistair said as he pulled on his pants while his man went to bring in his armor. "Parading me around in front of your maids in nothing but my skin, making a tease of me, giving them a good laugh."

Brighid did not look away from the mirror of the vanity. She had finished brushing out her hair and was securing it in a long tail at the nape of her neck. There was no use in doing much to it then since she'd only have to have it redone for the ceremony that evening.

"I assure you, there is nothing to laugh at," she said as his attendant returned. Alistair blushed on cue.

They picked up a crowd as Brighid accompanied her husband to the keep's newly repaired gate. She'd expected Zevran's ubiquitous smirk, but Seneschal Varel's conspiratorial look was a surprise. Apparently, they had bonded.

Technically, there should have been fanfare and a far more formal leave-taking, but Alistair was not one for long goodbyes and Brighid certainly had no use for them.

His procession waited, refreshed and restocked from the kitchens. Complaints overheard indicated that Oghren had taken part in that particular duty and Brighid was not the only one relieved to see him tucked into the king's procession, ready to depart. Alistair raised a hand to calm the murmuring of the crowd and thanked them for their brave service, diligence, and perseverance in the face of unexpected tragedy. He was earnest, as ever, and charming because of it. A cheer went up from the tired, beaten — but unbroken — crowd as he finished. Alistair turned to Brighid.

"Allow me to say a swift farewell before I change my mind," he said.

He leaned in carefully and Brighid turned her face just so as he kissed her cheek.

"Be well, wife."

Brighid inclined her head. "And you, my lord husband."

Alistair looked as though he might say something else, but walked away instead, weaving between the ranks of his guard. They pivoted on their heels and turned to follow him. The crowd did not disperse entirely, many trailing along as Brighid proceeded back into the keep. However, upon determining that she was not going to burst into hysterics or do anything else especially interesting, they went back to work.

Brighid needed to do the same.

"What do you have for me, Varel?" she asked as they approached the great hall.

"Much, Your Majesty," he replied.

As if to prove his point, a small group of people set upon her the moment Brighid entered the great hall. Varel corralled the quartet back and into some semblance of order as Brighid proceeded to the far end of the room, stepped up onto the dais, and then sat in the chair. Knight had taken his customary spot near the brazier in the center and Willem arranged himself, in full armor once again, to the right of Brighid's chair. At the left corner of the dais, Zevran sat on the steps, his legs stretched out and his feet crossed in front of him.

"Whoever is going to begin, do so," Brighid instructed.

"I will, if there is no objection," said a severe-looking man with short, light hair. He and the young woman beside him were armored and so, Brighid assumed, soldiers from the keep.

"There most certainly is an objection," said an older woman in a plain dress who was clutching a small leather-bound book in front of her. There was a dwarven man as well, but Brighid doubted he was in league with the older woman. "You would distract the queen and commander with rumors?" she asked pointedly.

"And you," the soldier replied venomously. "Would distract her with bookkeeping."

The woman sniffed. "If you knew anything, Captain Garavel, you would know that kingdoms rise and fall on bookkeeping."

The seneschal interrupted before the conflict could escalate.

"I believe we can allow the lady the courtesy of going first, Garavel," Varel said. Garavel scowled but was silent.

"I am Mistress Woolsey, my lady," the woman announced. "The First Warden sent me to manage the accounts here in Amaranthine. He did not feel that local men could be trusted."

"I am a local man, if you recall, Mistress Woolsey," said Varel while Brighid was still considering the implications of an agent sent by the far-off commander of the entire order of Grey Wardens. "And standing right here."

Woolsey seemed unaffected. "And I am sure you are a good and brave man, seneschal. But good men have been brought low by large amounts of coin on many occasions."

"You are from the Anderfels?" Brighid asked.

"No, my lady. It is very distant," said Woolsey as though Brighid had never looked at a map. "I merely go where the First Warden instructs."

"Do you know then," Brighid said. "Whether the First Warden instructed any other Wardens to come here? As you may have heard we are in dire need of reinforcements."

Brighid doubted it even as she asked. The few communications she and Alistair had engaged in with the First Warden could barely be called that and were conducted through many degrees of separation. But it had still been clear that he had barely any concern for whatever the situation was in Ferelden. Woolsey's presence was the first indication otherwise.

"No," said Woolsey confirming what Brighid already knew. "To the best of my knowledge he was under the impression — as was I — that your reinforcements would come from neighboring Orlais."

"The Empress of Orlais is not especially fond of Fereldans, if you were unaware," Brighid replied. It was both an understatement and a lie of omission. Empress Celene had been involved in diplomatic negotiations with Ferelden for years, but she also had a fair number of reasons to dislike Brighid, specifically. Brighid was not meant to be aware of most of those reasons, but that changed nothing and really the public reasons were more than enough.

Legions of Orlesian chevaliers that Celene had so generously offered Ferelden to help combat the Blight had been turned back by the traitor Loghain Mac Tir right before the start of the most recent Ferelden civil war. Relations between Orlais and Ferelden had broken down from there. The governments of the two nations had little contact until two years later, when the war ended with Alistair's ascent to the throne. It had taken a substantial number of painstakingly crafted and flowery missives from both Alistair and Brighid to get Celene to allow them even the paltry dozen Wardens she had. Brighid did not even want to consider the letters she would eventually have to write concerning their swift demises.

"That is unfortunate," Woolsey said, though she did not bother to feign concern. "At any rate, we are edging up on an escalating economic crisis. Repairs are expensive and the coffers were already quite strained by Arl Howe's deep involvement in the civil war. Simply put, we need more trade here at Vigil's Keep. As a whole, it houses a small town's worth of people, but most of them have to send out to the city to trade or spend their wages."

Brighid propped her elbow up on one arm of her chair and rested her chin in her palm. "While I understand the gravity of the situation, Mistress Woolsey, I can hardly personally go and collect merchants for you."

"You did send along that odd, little armorsmith some time ago," Mistress Woolsey said. "He is fine and well, but more is still necessary."

In all of the commotion, Brighid had entirely forgotten to even ask after Master Wade and his far less eccentric partner, Herren. The smith had crafted her armor over a year and a half ago out of drake scales she and her companions gathered during a trip through the Frostback Mountains. They were unlike anything she had ever seen and Brighid knew enough to want to make use of them. She stuffed both hers and Alistair's packs with as many as could comfortably be carried. The pieces Wade constructed were one of a kind and served her well. It was good to know that she would be able to have her armor properly tended while she was here. And the mention of him did present a solution to Mistress Woolsey's problem, though it might not be one she especially enjoyed.

"I sent him because he is a fine craftsman and while I have little use for new armor at court, I thought his skills would be put to good use attiring the soldiers and Wardens here at the keep," Brighid explained. "But if you wish to employ the methods I used to have him pack up his business in Denerim and move it here, you need only offer monetary incentives."

"Interesting," said Woolsey. "But easily counterproductive."

"That would depend entirely on how well you balance the incentives against what you expect to make from rent and taxes," Brighid replied. "I am confident you can figure out something profitable."

"As you say, my lady," Woolsey replied, inclining her head.

"And you, what do you want, ser?" Brighid asked, indicating the dwarf.

"He wants coin," piped up Woolsey.

The dwarf ignored her. "My name is Voldrik Glavonak, milady. I am a mason and I was sent here to look after the keep itself. Though it requires more looking after now than it did when I first came."

"Indeed," Brighid said.

"Some of the walls of the keep took damage during the attack. I can… put them back together like they were, but, no offense intended, that was human masonry." He grimaced. "I'm frankly surprised they lasted this long. I say why do wrong on top of wrong when you can do it right? I can build you real walls, but that'll take good stone and skilled workers, which, as Mistress Woolsey so eagerly pointed out, will cost coin."

"How much coin?" Brighid asked.

"Eighty sovereigns," he replied without hemming or hawing.

"There is absolutely no way that we can spare that much, Your Majesty," Mistress Woolsey protested immediately with a glance inside her ledger.

"And what good are full coffers if the keep tumbles down around us?" Brighid replied. "Give Master Glavonak however much of the sum you can spare, Mistress Woolsey, and I will sign and seal you a voucher for the rest from my personal funds. We will call it a royal endowment for the Wardens."

Woolsey nodded then turned to lead the dwarf out of the hall.

"Thank you, milady," he said and bowed before following her.

"What do you think of Woolsey, Varel?" Brighid asked after the door had closed.

The seneschal started and looked around. But Brighid and the group that had gathered around her at the dais were the only ones present in the long room. In other times, guards would stand at each of the sixteen pillars along its length, but with their forces depleted, Brighid had waived that tradition. Soldiers would be much better used elsewhere. She had seen to it that even her personal guard, excepting Willem, were put to more constructive tasks.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?" Varel asked, still bewildered.

"What do you think about why she is here?" Brighid clarified.

Varel considered this before answering.

"It is said, despite the traditional practice of the Wardens, that the First Warden involves himself quite heavily in politics in the Anderfels," Varel replied carefully. "Obviously, Her Majesty and the king are highly unique cases, as is the granting of an arling to the Wardens for rule. If it is not too bold, I would surmise that the First Warden wishes for both of these occurrences to be…less unique."

"I agree," Brighid said, pleased that Varel, while honest, was not simple. "He has likely sent Woolsey here to report back on whether we stuff it up, though he could not have anticipated the extent of my own involvement." Brighid herself had not anticipated that. "You will be dealing with her on a far more permanent basis than I will, Seneschal Varel. I would suggest coming to your own conclusions about the best way to do so."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Seneschal Varel said.

"Captain Garavel," Brighid said. "You are practically vibrating over there. What is it?"

The captain who had, in fact, been growing increasingly agitated wasted no time.

"Darkspawn!" he declared.

"My favorite," Brighid sighed.

"There are reports from the city that a pair of hunters claim to have encountered darkspawn in the west, emerging from what might have been a Deep Roads entrance."

"And is there a reason we should believe this is anything less than a tall tale?" Brighid asked with what she felt was excessive patience.

"I shall allow Sergeant Maverlies explain further," Garavel said curtly.

The woman beside him seemed surprised, but adjusted quickly.

"Your Majesty, it has come to our attention that there might still be darkspawn in the keep itself," she said.

Brighid arched an eyebrow. "Are they hiding amongst the staff? Assisting with the cleanup?"

"There is a cellar, my lady," Sergeant Maverlies explained. "And connecting tunnels that run under the keep. We have come to believe that this is the method by which the darkspawn ambushed us."

"And in turn Captain Garavel believes that this makes far more probable the idea of another underground entrance in Amaranthine," Brighid said. Both nodded. Then Brighid continued: "But if they are in this cellar why have they not come out?"

Maverlies pulled a face. "That crazy dwarf," she said. "Not Voldrik. His brother. The one who set off that explosion in the keep. It caused some of the tunnels, including the one leading into the cellar, to collapse. We could just leave them that way, but there is no guarantee that whatever primary course from which the others branch is also blocked. So they could still have other entrances elsewhere in the keep. We thought we might clear the way into the cellar again."

"Do it," Brighid commanded. "I want to see what is down there. If what we find warrants it, I will then look into your hunters, Garavel." If this satisfied the captain at all, it did nothing to lighten his mood.

"It will take a few days to clear the way, Your Majesty," Maverlies said.

"So be it."

The woman bowed and, after a nod from her captain, went off to make the arrangements.

"Anything else?"

Captain Garavel shook his head, but Varel took a step forward.

"There are a few things., Your Majesty. Runners have come ahead to confirm that the bulk of your vassals should be arriving throughout the afternoon. Some will not come until tomorrow and there is the possibility that a small number may not make it until two days hence. Preparations, however, are completed for tonight's ceremony and feast, and we will be able to accommodate any latecomers." Fine enough that they would be able to, but Brighid did not look forward to repeating what would likely be an irksome enough affair the first time.

"I know most of the players here," Brighid said. Having grown up in nearby Highever, the teyrnir to which the arling of Amaranthine was sworn, it was impossible not to. "But given that it has been nearly three years since I was last in a position to concern myself with any of it, you will have to take some time to inform me of their present dispositions." Not pleasant for the most part, Brighid surmised. Not towards her. Their former arl had attempted to claim her family's lands and title for himself and there was no way to know how many of his vassals supported his mad grab for power. But it was certain that any who did so lost much when Brighid had taken her vengeance and more when Alistair had given the arling over to the Grey Wardens.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Varel said. Then continued: "There is also a matter regarding the Orlesian Wardens. Specifically, we believe that one may have survived."

Brighid slid forward in her chair. "Where is he? How is this possible?"

"I do not know where he is, my lady. This Warden, Kristoff, he was not at the Vigil during the attack. It has come to my attention that he set off some days before on some sort of Warden business in Amaranthine."

"So you believe that he is still in the city?" Brighid asked.

"Once again, I do not know. He was sent to investigate the reason why the darkspawn were not fleeing back deep underground despite the death of the archdemon. In any case, I think seeking him out would be prudent."

"I think you are right." She paused to consider, crossing her legs. "I will go myself as soon as I am finished with my immediate business here. Thank you, Varel."

"You are very welcome, Your Majesty," the seneschal replied. "There is, however, one final piece of business. A single prisoner in need of sentencing."

"What is his crime?"

"He is a thief," Varel said. "Caught about three days ago. It was quite an event. It took four Grey Wardens to subdue him. He has spoken to no one. Not even to give his name. Since you were so close, we left the matter for you."

"And so he sat protected in his cell," Garavel growled. "While good men died."

"Bring him to me, then," Brighid said. She wished to see what manner of thief could trouble an entire group of Grey Wardens. Certainly no common one.

Garavel bowed and left the hall. Mere minutes later he returned, trailed by two soldiers half-dragging a man between them. The prisoner was manacled at both wrists and ankles and a chain connected the two, so that he could not raise his hands past his chest while standing. His ratty clothes hung loosely on him. The guards dropped him unceremoniously to the floor in front of the dais before turning and marching back out and Brighid could see that his face was gaunt. He had clearly not been well-treated during his stay at the Vigil and for some time before. However, his muscular shoulders, lithe but still too bulky for the perpetually undernourished, indicated that whatever hardships he recently endured had not always been the case.

He turned his head to the side to cough as Garavel stared down at him with disdain. His nose was hooked and looked like it might have been broken before. Though his dark hair, shorn at his shoulders, partially obscured his profile, familiarity prickled at the back of Brighid's mind.

He shifted his chains, then looked up at Brighid with cold, blue eyes.

"I rather expected you to have grown ten feet tall and have lightning coming out of your eyes," he said with an odd quality to his voice.

"The darkspawn probably think so," said Zevran from his seat on the steps of the dais. He was only a few feet away from the man and smiled down at him.

"You clearly know who I am," said Brighid. "And so you have me at a disadvantage."

"Why shouldn't I know you?" he rasped and this time the derision in his tone was unmistakable. "Queen, Grey Warden, Hero of Ferelden, my father's murderer."

Brighid leaned back in her chair. "I have killed many men and I am certain some portion of them must have been fathers. You'll have to be more specific."

"I am Nathaniel Howe," he spat. "You snuck into my father Rendon's home and killed him and now sit in his seat and his keep, reigning over an arling that you have stolen. Is that specific enough?"

In the space between two heartbeats, Brighid allowed this information to register fully and swallowed down her shock. If she'd had to make a list of people she thought she would never seen again, the only people higher on it than Nathaniel Howe would be those she had personally killed with her own two hands. Like his father. Who had very well deserved it.

From her right, came the clanging of plate as Willem began to move forward. Brighid raised a hand and the noise stopped.

"How conveniently you forget," she said, voice deathly even. "That your father first murdered my family."

Nathaniel scoffed. "And for what crime did he turn on them? Do you think it impossible that the Couslands were not perfectly innocent? The Couslands, who have never had anything they did not steal from a Howe."

Brighid was uninterested in a discussion of history, revisionist or otherwise.

"He turned on them because he was a traitor and allied himself with a regicide," she said. "A regicide whom I also saw executed. It is only fitting that your father shared his fate."

"Yes," Nathaniel hissed. "Loghain Mac Tir, who delivered us from the Orlesians. Whose daughter's title you have also so neatly usurped."

"If you are keeping a tally, I killed her as well," Brighid said and did not flinch. The deposed queen Anora Mac Tir's execution had been carried out quietly, a week after the royal wedding. It was the inevitable conclusion to something started long ago, but it was not a triumph. Nathaniel Howe did not need to know that, though.

"Do you wish to share her fate?" Brighid asked conversationally. "That of your father and her father? For your family name to be wiped from Ferelden memory as Rendon Howe once boasted he had done to mine?"

"I do not care," he said and dropped his eyes from his hate-filled stare. "I came here thinking to kill you. To set a trap. But what would that accomplish, I eventually asked myself. My family would still be torn asunder — most of them dead. Our lands and titles still gone. Our names reviled. So, I took a few things instead in some small attempt to reclaim a little of what has been lost to us.

"Though," his voice, which had softened — become sad — grew hard again. "Now I think perhaps I reconsidered too soon. Maybe the satisfaction would have been accomplishment enough. Hang me if you will. It matters not."

Brighid watched him stare down at his hands — his countenance bitter, angry, but most of all defeated. There was the measure of him, clear as day. He was harder than he had been some six years before. Half his life exiled to the Free Marches had finally caught up with him; he'd stopped even trying to pretend that the childish bitterness wasn't there. He'd just found a new target in the absence of his father.

But she'd withstood far worse than Nathaniel Howe's surly disposition. She smiled, restrained and nostalgic.

"Do I amuse you?" he asked when he looked up again and caught her expression.

"Thoroughly," Brighid said. "If you are so very worried about your family's honor, why do you not do something to redeem them instead of skulking about in the night like a petty thief?"

He let out a bark of something that could not be called laughter.

"Yes, I suppose, _Your Majesty_," he made the honorific sound like a curse, "would welcome me into her service. Or perhaps your _husband_," another curse, "needs a Howe man at his side." He shifted his chains again, folding his hands in front of him. "I have little left but my dignity. You are clearly fond of executing those who displease you. Do so. But cease mocking me."

"If I wished to mock you, I would continue for as long as I pleased," Brighid said. "But I have other plans for you."

"What is my sentence then?"

"So eager. That will serve you well. I hereby conscript you into the Grey Wardens."

The room exploded into ruckus. Varel and Garavel's exclamations swallowed each other up in an incomprehensible chorus of incredulity and disbelief. Zevran laughed mirthfully. Willem's protestation could be deciphered only by virtue of his proximity. And Knight barked, mostly in the interest of being included.

"You cannot mean that, my queen," Willem cried, a desperate entreaty.

"Quiet! All of you," Brighid said in lieu of an answer and as the other voices died out, Nathaniel's cut through the air.

"Never," he said.

"Oh, on the contrary: soon," Brighid replied. "In addition to being a thief, you have admitted to plotting my murder. Which, I am afraid, is treason. That means your life is mine to do with as I will and this is what I will."

Nathaniel stared at her and realized that she was neither jesting nor likely to be swayed.

"But why?" he asked, genuinely confounded.

"I am in need of capable recruits and you are clearly in need of something to do with yourself," Brighid said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As far she was concerned, it was. "I am many things, Nathaniel Howe, but never wasteful."

"I meant to kill you!" he said, still incredulous. "Do you commonly recruit your would-be murderers into your company?"

At this, Brighid expected more laughter from Zevran, but her elven friend showed restraint.

"Not so commonly," Brighid answered honestly. "But I have done with those who were much more serious about the attempt than you."

Nathaniel had no retort for that.

"Captain Garavel, see him to a guest room," Brighid instructed. "Make sure he does not leave it, but let him bathe." She wrinkled her nose. "And get him some clean clothes."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Garavel gritted out as he wrenched Nathaniel to his feet by one arm.

"And Garavel," Brighid called and the man paused and turned. "Make sure that he is properly fed this time."

Her gaze was pointed and Garavel nodded, then moved towards the door.

Seneschal Varel was still staring at her in mild confusion as Brighid descended the dais and rubbed Knight's head. The mabari's tongue lolled out in pleasure.

"Varel, where has that mage, Anders, got off to?" Brighid asked, ignoring the look. "He and I have some things to discuss."


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

Anders leaned against a column in the great hall and made a noble effort not to fall asleep. He normally enjoyed parties quite a lot, but this one was not exactly anything to write home about. He tugged irritably at the high collar of the doublet the queen had somehow dug up for him somewhere. These clothes were clearly not meant for comfort and the feast for the queen's — and now, he supposed, arlessa's — vassals was clearly not meant for actually having any fun. The food was good, but other than that it was a collection of very rich, very important people milling around pompously and discussing things in which Anders had no interest.

Though, if he was being honest, it could have been a rip-roaring gala and he might not have cared. He wasn't feeling particularly celebratory.

The day had started off well enough. After the excruciating ordeal of the night before, Anders woke up none the worse for wear. Well, he was ravenous, but that was easily solved. He'd spent the rest of the morning evaluating the talent, so to speak, amongst the keep's denizens. He and an adorable little redhead were having a private moment in a side room when the queen found him. The girl squealed, fixed her skirts, and fled, bowing and scraping and _Your Majesty_ing the entire way.

The day was all downhill from there.

Queen Brighid led him off for a Grey Warden Talk and the first — but by no means the last — unpleasant discovery came when he asked after their third.

"Ser Mhairi is dead," the queen said, as though it was nothing.

From thence came an uncomfortable wave of regret and guilt, because he had not cared. He'd woken that morning and thought of Mhairi, assumed she was still knocked out by their shot of darkspawn or just up and about elsewhere, and had intentionally not looked for her. It had not been personal at all. He liked Mhairi quite a lot. It was just that she had just seen most of her compatriots dead. It was bad enough that he had to tend to that handful of stoic survivors, so few of them even whole. But to deal with Mhairi's grief, perhaps be expected, as a Warden himself now, to be party to it? Anders was excellent at mending broken bodies. He'd always had a talent for it. Hearts and spirits were another's purview.

But it had all been for naught. Brave, pretty Mhairi was dead, and he was the only Warden left to serve their queen and commander. How lucky for them both.

Her subsequent revelations about the burdens of being a Grey Warden, the nightmares and the drastically shortened lifespan, were numbing. He'd gone along with the conscription because it seemed a far superior option to being dragged back to the Circle Tower yet again, likely to be hanged this time. Now he wondered whether he had been tragically mistaken. He got a pendant and thirty extra years, perhaps, provided he wasn't killed by darkspawn in the interim, but it felt very little like freedom.

Queen Brighid did not give the impression of one with a sympathetic ear. Or even of someone who would pretend to have a sympathetic ear, despite the many rumors of her wiles he'd heard in the past months. After what she had been through as a Warden he did not expect comfort or reassurance. At least the archdemon was already dead so he did not have to worry about being the Warden chosen to die in its slaying. It was unscrupulous at best, but he could understand why they didn't include information like that in their recruitment pitch. He didn't suppose she had known beforehand either. So, Anders did not voice his concerns, and the queen did not pause before giving her orders. As Amaranthine was the arling of the Grey Wardens, he would have to attend the ceremony, and he would also need to prepare himself for much messier work that they would see to in a few days.

So, Anders sent his robes for laundering and put on the clothes the queen got for him. He'd even gone and begged a staff off of the mage liaison since his most recent templar captives had, of course, dashed his against a rock at their earliest convenience. Cera did not know him personally, but she knew of him — a side effect of seven escapes — and gave him a series of withering looks. But the staff she provided worked very well, its enchantments strong and its suitability as a conduit for his power unquestionable. Cera's dedication to her duty, it seemed, outweighed her distaste for Anders and his crimes against the image of a perfect, obedient little mage.

Of course, perfect and obedient was what he had to be as a seemingly endless string of lords and ladies and banns pledged their fealty to Queen Brighid as the Warden-Commander. Faithful in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. Never to bear arms against her or her successors. Anders was mouthing it along with them by the end. And now the feast dragged on through the night with no respite in sight.

He was moments away from the absolute depths of despair — or at least ennui — when a woman approached him. She was blonde and fit and attired in a well-made red gown. Anders immediately broke into a charming smile when she came near.

"My lady," he said.

"You are a Grey Warden, are you not, ser?" she asked directly. Anders would have liked to think that this was a sign that his new status was particularly attractive to women, but he had an inkling that she had other reasons for asking than that she found him suddenly irresistible.

"I am," he confirmed shortly.

"I apologize, Warden," she said, realizing her mistake. "That was quite rude of me. I am Ser Tamra and I asked because I would like a word with your commander."

It figured that the first person to look at him without staring down their nose was actually looking for the queen.

"I think that's probably very common," he said with a slight shrug. This knight assumed an influence that he did not possess. He did not suppose that he was the very _last_ person who could convince the queen to do something, but she did not seem disposed to being convinced in general. The queen, like Ser Tamra, needed him for something. Anders did not presume to be much more to her than a walking artillery.

Ser Tamra frowned. "I assure you it is not anything for my own sake," she said and the anxiety in her bearing made Anders believe her. "It is regarding something I think the queen would be very concerned with. I just need a few moments of her time."

Anders weighed his options. He cast about the room and picked out Queen Brighid. She stood near the dais now. Earlier she had sat there with her handsome features set in stony forbearance, accepting the oaths of her vassals—the carving of warring dogs on the back of her chair like some odd halo. He noted again that she looked perfectly lovely, black hair upswept in a complex configuration of braids. Her dress, in navy and pale gold, did not do the glorious things for her hindquarters that her earlier leather pants and plain shirt had done, but the fit of the bodice did bring some of her other assets into sharp relief.

She was engaged in conversation with a swarthy older man and a woman — bann of something or another, Anders remembered from the ceremony — with a nice figure but unfortunately pinched face. Or rather the man and the woman seemed to be arguing with each other as the queen dispassionately observed. Anders made his decision.

"Stay here," he instructed Ser Tamra and set off across the room.

By the time he neared his target, the man was nearly yelling something about soldiers and farms and Anders slipped in just as he paused for a breath.

"My sincerest apologies, my lord and lady, but I need to borrow my commander for a moment. Grey Warden business, you understand," he said, then looped his arm through the queen's and began to move away. Thankfully, after darting a brief look at him, she moved with him.

"What exactly do you think you are doing, ser mage?" Queen Brighid said, stopping cold as soon as they were out of earshot and extricating her arm from his. Her displeasure was evident.

"Well, uh," Anders began, not enjoying the intensity of her stare. "You seemed a little…put-upon by your companions just then."

The stare relented, but only just. "While it is true that Bann Esmerelle and Lord Eddelbreck were not offering sparkling conversation, it is still a ways beyond your place to interrupt."

Anders nodded agreeably. "It will never happen again," he assured her. "It just seemed as though they were asking things of you that you did not wish to grant."

"Everyone asks things of me," she said simply. "Indeed, I believe that you wish to ask something of me, do you not?"

Caught, Anders fell back on his normal method of dealing with most accusations: denial.

"Whatever would give you that impression?" he asked, smiling nervously.

She pursed her lips. "The lady across the way standing where you were earlier. Staring at us."

"Ah. Yes." He cast his eyes downward, leaning closer and the queen crossed her arms. She really did have an excellent bosom. "There was a small — tiny, really — favor that I wished to ask."

"I do not do favors, Anders. Not easily or freely."

He winced. "She just wants to talk to you. Her name is Ser Tamra. She says it concerns you, not her at all."

"I believe her," he added with his best wide-eyed, hopeful stare.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, something changed in the queen's face, then she rolled her eyes.

"Do not ever do anything like that again," she said taking his arm once more and pacing towards Ser Tamra.

"Never," he swore happily.

Ser Tamra, for all that she had swiftly gotten exactly what she asked for, seemed far less joyful.

"Your Majesty," she said and looked at Anders for a moment before evidently deciding that there was no harm in him hearing this as well. "I regret to inform you that I have… heard things. Talk and other communications of a conspiracy against you."

"I see," the queen said, voice even.

Ser Tamra continued: "I thought that you should know, there are very unhappy people amongst your vassals. I believe that these plans, whatever they may be, were initially intended for whomever you named Warden-Commander, but I do not think that they have been discouraged by the fact that Your Majesty is now the target." Considering that Queen Brighid was likely directly responsible for whatever troubles had them in such a tiff, having killed the previous arl, Anders supposed that they were probably happy about the switch. Why settle for a servant of your enemy when you could have the enemy herself? "In either case, you are not solely among friends," Ser Tamra finished.

"I am well aware of that, I assure you," said Queen Brighid. "Some of these people were very likely involved in Howe's betrayal of my family; it is obvious they would have no great love for me. My question is, Ser Tamra, how am I to know that this warning is not a ploy of yours or some master you serve?"

"I suppose you cannot know," Ser Tamra admitted. "But my concern is genuine. I would prove it to you if I could."

"And why can't you?" the queen asked. "Giving me names would go a long way towards that."

"I do not know names, my lady," Ser Tamra said. "Their communications are coded. I could work it out, but intercepting some of their messages, in addition to being dangerous, would take time."

"I am not going anywhere for a while," Queen Brighid said and Anders could have sworn he heard a sigh in it. "So, I suggest you see to it."

Ser Tamra nodded. "I will then, my lady."

"Then good luck with that." Queen Brighid turned and began to walk away. Anders was about to speak to Ser Tamra, who finally directed an appreciative smile in his direction, but the queen barked his name. He was forced to go running after her as she approached the seneschal, clad in a doublet not too unlike Anders' own. Perhaps that was where the queen had gotten it.

"I am very well done with this, Varel," the queen was saying as Anders caught up to her. "Clear the room."

With that, she plucked a goblet of watered wine from a tray that a nearby elven servant was holding aloft and took a draught. Anders thought this particularly unwise given that she'd just been informed of a conspiracy against her by people who were likely present in this very room, but on second glance he realized that the elf holding the tray was the queen's little tagalong, Zevran. He idly twirled the now empty platter on the tip of one finger, no less agile than he was with the rather wicked daggers he had used to such deadly effect when darkspawn were still swarming the keep. Anders had no real idea of the man's connection to the queen, but he knew there was probably a very good story in there somewhere.

Seneschal Varel announced in a booming voice that Her Majesty grew tired and the hour was late and as such they would be adjourning. An army of servants appeared at the doors to show the various nobles back to their rooms. As they trailed out, the captain of the keep's soldiers entered, followed by the dour and humorless young man from the queen's guard who shadowed her every step. The latter sneered at Anders, evidently still taking umbrage to Anders' remarks to his queen before he had realized that she _was_ the queen. Not that it would likely have stopped him. Really he did not see what was so untoward about acknowledging the obvious fact that she was a very attractive woman. Being the Queen of Ferelden didn't change that.

The guardsman and the captain checked the room for stragglers and finding none, went to bar the door. The queen's mabari hound slipped in just before they did. It headed directly to one of the tables, not yet cleaned, and set to making a mess as it dragged the remains of a hunk of pork — and its platter — off of the table. There was a reason that Anders had always been a cat person.

The queen did not comment on her dog's misbehavior and so no one else did. Instead, she climbed the dais and sat down in her chair. She leaned back and rested her chin on her palm as those still present gathered around.

"Varel," she said and this time she definitely sighed. "A young knight that Anders dug up has informed me that my vassals are plotting against me."

"Unfortunately, that is quite likely your majesty," said the seneschal. "Many of them gained much when Howe claimed Highever."

Though it was Varel who spoke and whom she had addressed, the queen looked at Zevran with a question in her eyes.

"It is true," the elf said, as he ascended the dais to lean against the queen's chair. "While none of them were stupid enough to say anything remotely direct, I know the suspicion of assassination when I hear it. The ones talking were not necessarily involved, but there is definitely something afoot. Call it a buzz, if you like."

"Anyone who is aware of a conspiracy but does not report it is every bit as guilty as those carrying it out," said the captain. "If you have heard them, they should be punished accordingly."

"That is adorably naive," said Zevran and the captain scowled at him. Well, more so than his evidently default scowl.

"I can hardly punish every vassal that is aware that I have enemies but does not see fit to list them to me with no provocation. I would have few vassals left," said the queen.

"And what good are disloyal vassals to have?" the captain asked.

The queen replied: "They are not all _dis_loyal. They simply are not loyal yet as I have given them little reason to be. The proper example must be made."

"Though it is… distasteful," piped up the seneschal. "You could invite members of the families of those most disagreeable to remain here at the keep. And should anything untoward happen…"

"Hostages, Varel?" the queen said, her face a picture of studious consideration. "Expedient in the short term, but not everyone is especially attached to their family, certainly not more so than to the promise of wealth and titles. Not to mention that, for those who are, such a threat would eventually be best gotten rid of by… getting rid of it. It is also not a precedent I am eager to set."

"And you can only follow through on the threat of a hostage once," added Zevran. "Which tends to incite grudges when you do and there you are, fresh out of leverage."

Varel did not seem disappointed by the rejection of this plan. Anders could not blame him, though he found it a surprising decision from the queen, despite the rationalization. Perhaps the rumors had exaggerated her ruthlessness right along with her womanly wiles.

"We could have the soldiers try to see what they might pick up while the nobles are here," suggested Varel. "However, I doubt they would be particularly good at it."

"As do I," said the queen.

"It is never wise to leave espionage to those not trained for it," said Zevran and Anders thought of Ser Tamra.

"I think," said the queen after a moment of silent consideration took the room. "That the best method would be to catch them in the act. Let them spring their little trap."

Anders did not bother to hold his tongue any longer.

"As in the trap through which they mean to _kill you_?" he asked.

Queen Brighid smiled, self-assured. "Better men have tried."

"I agree with your fellow Warden, Your Majesty," Varel said. "I cannot recommend this course of action."

"Duly noted," the queen said dismissively. "If Anders' knight brings me names and evidence, I may change my mind. Until then, leave it."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Varel said hesitantly.

"Also, with packs of darkspawn roaming the countryside, Bann Esmerelle and Lord Eddelbreck were both plaguing me for soldiers that we barely have," the queen said, shedding light on the spirited discussion from which Anders had rescued her. "Eddelbreck was a friend of my father's, but that certainly does not mean he is free of self-interest. The farmland is his livelihood as much as it is a food source."

"Bann Esmerelle is no friend of mine," she continued. "But as she holds the city and a great deal of wealth besides, I cannot afford to casually make her an enemy. Garavel, you know the defense of this area best. What do you suggest?"

The captain did not hesitate. "It is far easier to rebuild farmhouses than it is a sacked city."

"That is exactly what Esmerelle said," the queen replied. "So be it then. Send more troops to the city."

Captain Garavel nodded.

"There will be more tomorrow, Varel?" the queen asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty, but not nearly so many." He smiled at the look of obvious relief on the queen's face.

"Then," the queen said, rising. "I am going to bed. I do not wish to be disturbed for anything less than a darkspawn attack, if you please."

Varel mumbled his assent and, oddly enough, shared a brief look with Zevran.

The queen swept out of the room. Her mabari was hot on her heels, still licking his chops, and her guardsman only a step behind, though, the queen sent the latter in the opposite direction at the door. The others dispersed as well: Varel, and, after a moment, Zevran, into a side room off the great hall and Captain Garavel presumably to scowl about elsewhere.

Assuming he too was dismissed, Anders wondered if he might find a servant girl out of whom he could charm the location of Ser Tamra's room. It seemed likely enough to give it a try.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

Nathaniel paced.

There was little else to do.

He had been locked in a bedroom for three days. Ever since the mad command from Brighid Cousland — for he'd had no luck thinking of her as Brighid Theirin — that he was to become a Grey Warden. It was not where he expected to end up. If he was honest with himself, he'd expected to end up dead — not just when he was taken from his cell in the Vigil to be sentenced, but from the moment he'd stepped back into Ferelden.

It had taken months for reliable, corroborated news to reach him in the Free Marches. When the civil war was still going strong, his father sent word that he was to stay there in order to ensure that an heir to the Howe name lived if things should go badly. Concern from his father was rare, and Nathaniel could not spurn it. But once things unraveled, once there were rumors that his father was captured or worse, that the war was over, that the Howes and the Mac Tirs had lost to upstarts, Nathaniel could not be convinced to hold back.

The reality he encountered upon returning home was unthinkable. There was nothing left for him — no family, no name, no future. And to make the blow all the more overwhelming it came at the hands of Brighid Cousland. She'd never been soft, of that he was sure. Showing up after two years of presumed death, leading some bastard of King Maric's around by the nose, plowing through everyone that stood between her and the throne — he would not have thought her incapable of any of it, but he also would have never imagined that it would be something she wanted. And he had imagined many things about Brighid Cousland over the years. Of course, none of that mattered now, and he had never known her very well, after all.

The girl he remembered had been relentless and frank, perhaps brutally so, but never wantonly cruel. Yet what else could he call this charade? He had considered it during the long, lonely hours — considered how he might take advantage of the opportunity if it were truly presented to him, but he did not for a moment believe that it ever would be. He was not the same person for his experiences and Brighid Cousland obviously was not either. This was a game that she was playing, and he had no choice but to wait for her next move.

And so he did. For three days.

He was well-fed, as per Brighid's final instructions. On the first night, servants flanked by soldiers had dragged in a metal tub and filled it for him so that he could bathe. They took the worn clothes he'd doffed, and he stood, wet and shivering, until they brought him replacements. He saw no part of his own effects, however, and it became immediately clear that he would be offered nothing more than Brighid had expressly demanded. No one would answer any questions he posed, no matter how innocuous, or really speak to him at all. His only visitors were the servants and their guards — his guards — who brought him his meals three times a day.

It was no longer than he had been jailed before his sentencing, but despite the much improved accommodations, Nathaniel was infinitely more agitated. In the cell, he was resigned to his fate. In this room, thankfully not one of the family rooms in which he'd grown up, he waited for the unknown.

It came walking through the door on the morning of the fourth day. Nathaniel had expected a servant collecting his breakfast dishes. Instead, there was a very tall, very well-armed knight. After a moment of surprise, Nathaniel recognized him as the same one who had stood near Brighid during his sentencing; the one who had looked at him with the kind of hatred that seemed personal. His opinion of Nathaniel had evidently not much improved in the intervening days. Barely restrained ire still burned in his eyes as they looked at each other. Then, he spoke.

"Her Majesty calls. You will come with me," said the knight. On cue, a pair of servants entered carrying a set of leather armor and put it in front of Nathaniel. When he picked up the cuirass, he realized that it was his own—the crest of the Howe family tooled onto one corner. The knight only looked at him impatiently, and Nathaniel took his meaning.

He attired himself, the knight's burning gaze on him the entire time, and when he had barely buckled the final strap, the knight walked out of the room. Nathaniel followed.

Two soldiers dropped into step behind Nathaniel, and the knight led their silent procession through the familiar halls of the Vigil. Not many paused to look at them. Nathaniel supposed they did not look especially out of place — just a group of warriors on their way to some errand. The only people who would have reason to look would be people who knew who he was, and there was very little chance that anyone who would recognize him was still about the keep. He had been away a long time. He wondered how many of the servants who had tended his family and their home had been killed with their masters. Probably only the most loyal ones. Good workers were not to be wasted and as long as they did not plan to poison your food it did not really matter who their previous master had been. Blood relatives, unfortunately, did not get that sort of dispensation.

Nathaniel slowed when they neared the entrance to the great hall, only to receive a rough shove in the back from one of the soldiers tailing him. Up ahead the knight kept walking. He led them through the keep's main entrance and outside. Nathaniel felt some of his anxiety give way to plain curiosity. Evidently, Brighid did not wish to belittle him as she had before, perched in his father's chair and looking down her pert, little nose. Perhaps she had planned some fresh, new humiliation.

The soldiers stayed at the door of the keep and the knight dropped back to walk at Nathaniel's side as they weaved their way around the squat buildings. It was not far before Nathaniel saw Brighid standing near one of the cellar entrances. She was armed and her hair was tied up tight at the crown of her head. She also wore plain studded leather armor that did not seem adorned enough for her station. There was a blond man engaged in conversation with her—a mage if the robes and staff were any indication—and the mabari from the great hall was there as well. So too the Antivan elf who'd lounged at Brighid's feet like an over-contented cat.

"Why in Andraste's name would you wish to take a cat with you?" Nathaniel heard Brighid ask the mage as he and the knight approached. Upon closer inspection, it did, indeed, appear that the mage was clutching a small cat to himself.

The mage grinned stupidly. "With all due respect and no offense intended, my queen, you have a dog."

Brighid's eyes narrowed. "This is a mabari war hound," she said. "He was magically bred for both extraordinary intelligence and battle prowess." The dog barked as if in agreement.

"That," she continued, pointing at the bundle of fur in his arms, "is a ginger kitten and while it is cute, I will grant you, it is also entirely useless in a fight."

"Mages made the mabari," the mage pointed out. "What's to say that I can't start a breed of hyper-intelligent war cats with Ser Pounce-a-Lot here?"

"The fact that Knight is clearly smarter than you are?" Brighid offered, then turned as she noticed Nathaniel and his escort approaching.

"Willem," she said. "I see have you have brought our sixth."

"As you commanded, Your Majesty," said Ser Willem as he bowed and then immediately arranged himself behind his queen.

"And how are you, Nate?" Brighid asked. The diminutive of his name sounded mocking on her tongue, a callback to memories to which she no longer had any right and for which he no longer had any use.

"Nathaniel," he corrected. "And I am your prisoner… my lady."

"You were my prisoner, _Nathaniel_," she said. "Now you are a Grey Warden recruit."

With that she picked up the bow and full quiver that had been leaning against the door to the cellar and pressed them into his arms. They were his own.

"This is Anders, a fellow Grey Warden," she said indicating the mage. "Zevran." The elf, though she offered no other title or position. "And you've already met Willem."

The dog growled. "Oh, and Knight."

"You brought me out here for introductions then," Nathaniel said, vexed by the entire situation, but particularly her casual attitude, as though he were a true recruit and not some toy with which she'd decided to fiddle.

"No. I brought you out here to make yourself useful," she said. "I have business to attend to in the basements. Like far too high a percentage of my business, it involves killing darkspawn. As such, it will also double as the first part of your initiation rite." She tossed something small and gleaming towards him and he caught it easily. It was a glass vial.

"You need to fill that vial with darkspawn blood. Survive and you become a Grey Warden and have some small chance at digging the Howes out of this latest hole in which they've found themselves. Don't survive and, well, there's one way to be rid of all of your problems. I suggest you survive."

Brighid turned to the door, opened it, and began down the steps. The others trailed after her. The mage waved down a passing girl and gave the kitten to her before doing so. Ser Willem passed with a dirty look at Nathaniel. Nathaniel stood at the doorway, allowing this latest shift in reality to settle.

Somehow, unthinkably, her offer was legitimate.

He bolted down the steps after them. He passed the mage and the elf, but Ser Willem put his massive armored arm out, blocking Nathaniel's progress towards Brighid. Nathaniel was forced to talk past the knight when he called to her.

"You're actually serious," he said, still disbelieving.

"As the business end of my blade," she replied without stopping or turning around.

"I don't know whether to take this as a vote of confidence or a punishment," he said, accusing.

"Nathaniel, I hope you believe I am just as serious when I say that which way you take it does not matter to me a whit," she replied.

He scowled at her back and said no more as they descended into the cellar. A small group of soldiers waited there in the antechamber, and Brighid spoke immediately to one woman.

"Is all ready, Sergeant Maverlies?" Brighid asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Maverlies replied. "We have not gone beyond this point. There were darkspawn bodies, crushed in the rubble. So that is fewer for you to worry about." The soldier seemed torn between wariness of the situation and awe of Brighid.

She continued: "There may also be people down here. There is a dungeon and there were prisoners. There is the chance of servants sent on errands as well."

"They've been trapped down here for nearly four days with darkspawn. I doubt any survive," said Brighid.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Maverlies replied solemnly.

Brighid walked past the soldiers to enter the basement proper, but Maverlies called after her.

"Maker watch over you, Your Majesty," she said with much feeling.

Brighid offered a scant nod of acknowledgement before passing through the door, her party hot on her heels. Nathaniel followed, checking the string on his bow as he walked. They came out in the Hall of Warriors. The walls were lined with statues representing all of the different forces that had held Vigil's Keep at one point or another, all the way back to the Avvar barbarians. It had been modeled by the Orlesians during their own occupation and as such had been in disrepair for Nathaniel's entire life. Instead of a great hall of history, it seemed like dusty storage for unwanted reminders of the past. Nathaniel already had enough of those to be getting on with from the course of his own life.

They walked through it on quickly, no one else especially concerned with the history either. When they neared the far door, it was to find a mabari curled up on the floor.

Brighid knelt beside it and Nathaniel was surprised to see it move. It was wounded and its fur matted with dried blood. He'd thought it was dead. Brighid made soothing noises as she gently petted it.

"Willem, go get Sergeant Maverlies," she commanded.

Ser Willem trundled off towards the door through which they'd entered. Brighid's own mabari approached, then lay down beside the injured dog. He licked it gently and nudged at it with his nose. Brighid inspected the dog carefully and when she backed away, nodding in the mage's direction, Nathaniel saw why.

Brighid held a small scroll that had been attached to the dog. It was stained and crumpled but obviously still legible as Brighid studied it.

"A woman called Adria has descended deeper into the basement to hide," Brighid announced. Nathaniel's breath caught.

"Did you say Adria?"

Brighid just passed Nathaniel the note as she returned to the dog in order to look at what, if anything, the mage was doing for it.

The handwriting was frantic, but still unmistakable to Nathaniel's eyes; she had taught him to read and write after all. Adria had been his nurse and then his tutor. She looked after him when he was sick and was probably one of the only people who missed him after his father sent him away — after the decision had been made that Thomas was to be the heir and Nathaniel was only a spare.

Ser Willem returned with Sergeant Maverlies trailing behind him. Brighid gave the woman swift instructions to care for the dog and then set off through the door again. Nathaniel maneuvered himself beside her before Willem could intervene, note still clutched in his fist.

"Adria was like a mother to me," he said. "We must save her."

"It has been too long," Brighid advised him as they turned a corner and found another descending stairwell. "There is very likely nothing left to save."

"We have to try!" he exclaimed. "Even you cannot be so callous."

"And what do you think we are presently doing, Nathaniel, coming down here for a picnic?" Her normally unaffected voice had risen in irritation. "I had not planned to turn tail and run the other way should we encounter her."

Nathaniel felt momentarily chagrined, but only momentarily, before she spoke again and chagrin was replaced with anger.

"You are an archer are you not? Take up the rear guard with Anders and stop nattering in my ear."

It was a wonder, he thought, that she could be so arrogant as to speak to him that way, to have done what she had done to his family, and then to put him at her back. How she had not already been killed as a result of her hubris he could not understand. But he paused at the bottom of the stairs nevertheless, wishing to be near her no more than she wanted him there. Ser Willem passed him, as did Zevran and the dog. Nathaniel fell into step beside the mage who leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.

"She can be a bit testy in the morning," he confided.

"And on days that end at sunset, I imagine," Nathaniel replied.

Anders chuckled in agreement. "View's better from back here anyway."

He tilted his head then and, upon mimicking him, Nathaniel saw that in the wider corridor, the spread of their other companions allowed a largely unobstructed view of the sway of Brighid's hips as she walked. Nathaniel straightened up, cleared his throat, and concentrated on staring daggers at the back of her head instead — leaving the mage to his prurient amusements.

The mage laughed again.

"Have it your way," he said.

Eventually, they arrived at the door that opened into the lower dungeon. Two cages dominated the room: one closed and empty, the other with its door hanging off the hinges. There were massive bloodstains all over the floor and in the open cell, two men huddled in the corner. Brighid approached with excessive care and, wary of the tension, Nathaniel nocked an arrow.

"Oi, there," she called out and one of the men whipped around, his face contorted into a hideous mask as he yelled then charged at Brighid. She sidestepped him easily, grabbing his arm and using that and a knee at his back to force him to his knees. Then, she drew the knife at the small of her back and slit the man's throat in one swift motion.

Nathaniel lowered his bow.

"I see mercy is, indeed, not one of your strong suits," he said.

Brighid silently cleaned her knife and the elf answered him first.

"He was already dead," Zevran said. "That was the greatest mercy she could offer him."

Re-sheathing her knife, Brighid tipped the dead man over onto his back with one foot. Nathaniel recoiled at the sight of him. Now that he was still and closer, Nathaniel could see that the man was covered with rotting black sores and his skin, a sickly gray pallor, was stained with old blood, not his own that had just been spilled.

"A basic Grey Warden lesson," she said. "The Taint took him. Not everyone is lucky enough to die immediately. It twisted him, drove him mad. We call them ghouls."

"What about the other-" Anders began, but his eyes must have fallen on the second man at the same time Nathaniel's did. The man was well and truly dead, with the same sores as the first, but his body was also ravaged. Parts of him were… missing; one stump of an arm looked gnawed. Beside Nathaniel, Anders shuddered and turned away. Nathaniel averted his gaze as well, but it quickly came to rest on the door leading deeper into the basements. He hated to think that Brighid was right, but he could not imagine how Adria could have survived a run-in with such a wretched creature.

He, however, seemed to be the only one considering moving forward. Brighid had wandered back towards the right wall of the room, just at the head of the cage where the two dead men lay. Her devoted entourage followed and watched as she slid her hands along the wall. She stopped at a section between two wooden support beams and stroked the fitted stone with long, slender fingers as she moved close, all but pressing her cheek to it.

"Do you feel that, Anders?" she asked suddenly.

The mage looked surprised, but then, squinting his eyes, nodded.

"Yes, I do," he confirmed.

"Feel what?" Nathaniel demanded.

Brighid took one step back and regarded the section of wall she had been fondling.

"Darkspawn," she said. "Help me out here, Zev."

The elf came forward, a dagger in his hand that Nathaniel had not seen earlier, and put his own pointed ear to the wall. He moved to a few different spots, tapping the hilt of his dagger against the wall. Then he ran his hands, not along the wall as his mistress had done, but up and down the support beams. Midway through one side, there was a faint click, then the scraping and grinding of stone as a segment of the wall swung back revealing a dark passageway.

"I got a splinter," Zevran said as he studied one of his fingers.

"Would you like me to kiss it better?" Brighid asked drily as she took a torch from a nearby sconce.

Zevran smiled lasciviously. "My dear queen, there are _so many_ parts of me that you are most cordially invited to kiss."

Nathaniel eyed Ser Willem, who was procuring a torch himself. He certainly seemed slavish enough in his service of Brighid to take great offense at the elf's impertinence. But Willem said nothing and Brighid led them into the passageway.

Not satisfied with the torches flickering just ahead, Anders tapped the bottom of his staff lightly on the ground and a brilliant glow sprung up from the odd stone held in the latticework at its top. The passageway was not long. Had it been lit, its end would have been easily visible from within the dungeon. The door at the opposite side was not hidden. Brighid held the torch in her left hand as she turned the knob and threw it open.

The room into which the door opened was large and circular, lit by torches that burned around its length, high on the walls. The light revealed recesses along the walls, each holding a heavy stone coffin.

It was a crypt. Little wonder he and his siblings had been forbidden from playing down here as children.

There were two levels. The door opened onto the top one which was circled by a chiseled stone bannister and, directly in front of the door, there was a wide stairway that led down to the lower level. In the center of that circle, a group of darkspawn gathered around a fire.

Willem dropped his torch and charged down the steps before the darkspawn could even draw their blades. He plowed into the middle of the crowd, knocking one of the darkspawn directly into their campfire before they began to swarm him. Brighid, Zevran, and the mabari followed him, engaging those that had not been distracted by the knight's wild charge. Brighid shoved her torch into one darkspawn's face, then drew her sword and long knife and blocked another's attack. Zevran, who had two daggers now, stabbed it twice in the back before Brighid could counter. She immediately turned her attention to another enemy. The mabari dragged down one of the beasts attempting to hack at Willem. Beside Nathaniel, Anders moved near the banister as he raised his staff.

Whatever the spell was, it swept over Nathaniel like a cool breeze. His senses felt keener and his hands steadier. He nocked an arrow and let fly into the crowd still gathered around Willem. One of the darkspawn fell dead, the arrow protruding from his neck. Nathaniel continued firing and so did Anders, maintaining his helper spell and sporadically letting a crackling bolt of electricity fly at any darkspawn that fled into a corner.

Nathaniel had not had time to think of what it would mean to be a Grey Warden, to face these creatures, snarling and inhuman as they were. In the moment, it did not seem to matter though. His hands and arms moved as if of their own accord and the hellish beasts fell just like anything else as he rained death down upon them. Then, two broke away and dashed up the stairs.

Nathaniel retreated back as far as he could without running into Anders, then shot one darkspawn straight through the eye just before it reached the landing. Its companion, however, was closing fast. Nathaniel glanced at Anders. The mage's eyes were half-lidded and unfocused; energy gathered at his hands and swirled around his raised staff. Below, an aura of similar energy limned Ser Willem. Whatever Anders was doing required his full concentration and was very likely keeping the knight alive. On his own then.

Nathaniel fired at the rushing darkspawn, but the creature was too close. Nathaniel's shot went askew, glancing off of its arm and ricocheting uselessly. Left with few other options, Nathaniel charged. The darkspawn lunged for him and Nathaniel sidestepped, moving behind him. Then, for want of anything better, he hooked his bow around the creature's neck, up under its chin, pressing against its windpipe. For just a moment, he held it, its body bent back as Nathaniel attempted to crush the breath from it. Then, the darkspawn screeched and began to struggle. Nathaniel was lifted off his feet as the darkspawn pulled itself back up to its full height. It clawed at the bow, which was now choking it not just with what force Nathaniel could bring to bear, but the weight of his entire body. The darkspawn bucked and spun, attempting to sling Nathaniel off him, but Nathaniel held tight, arms straining, the wood of the bow creaking. From close proximity the darkspawn's stink filled Nathaniel's nostrils, making it harder for him to breathe as he panted with the exertion. His hands were sweating and his muscles burning when the darkspawn jolted, then began staggering to a stop. It had been facing Anders, who now stood with his staff pointed at the darkspawn's chest.

Whatever he had done had ended the creature, and it teetered dangerously backwards. Nathaniel kicked a foot out and pushed off a nearby wall, causing the darkspawn to fall forward instead. It crashed to the ground and Nathaniel's knuckles scraped on the stone. His bow made a foreboding crack. He lifted himself from the darkspawn's back and freed the bow from under it.

It was splintered and snapped in two uneven pieces. Nathaniel cursed. It had been a fine bow, of Antivan make. But, he supposed, better _it_ be crushed by a darkspawn than him. Below, Brighid and Zevran were disposing of the last two darkspawn. Brighid sliced open one's neck, then deftly dodged out of the way of the spurt of blood that followed. All at once, Nathaniel remembered her instruction.

He rolled the fallen darkspawn onto its back, then drew the small knife sheathed on the underside of his quiver. The vial, which he had stored in a side pocket on his belt, was mercifully unbroken and Nathaniel unstoppered it and held it steady as he opened a gash in the creature's throat. The blood was viscous, nearly black, and smelled ten times worse than the darkspawn itself. It oozed over the edges of the vial as Nathaniel attempted to fill it and he screwed up his face in disgust.

"How very pleasant," he said.

Anders, who stood by watching, patted his shoulder companionably as he passed him to go down the stairs.

"Oh, you have no idea," he said, smiling.

Nathaniel finished filling the vial and stoppered it, and then wiped off as much of the excess as he could before tucking it back into his belt pouch. Below, the others were surveying the darkspawn camp and Nathaniel joined them, his ruined bow tucked under one arm. Once he was down there, it became evident that the crypt had been used for storage prior to the darkspawn's incursion. There were crates and weapon stands scattered about; some, he saw, ravaged by the darkspawn. Still, it was as convenient as could be asked for. Nathaniel searched a nearby stand, looking for something to keep him alive as they continued their sojourn into the depths of the keep.

The room was evidently no great secret as the weapons were too well kept up to have been untouched since his family's time at Vigil's Keep. He drew out a longsword and tested its balance before sliding it under his belt. Nathaniel had sold his own sword a few weeks after coming back to Ferelden. It had been that or starve, and it came down to whether the bow or the sword would be of more use to him. A bow and arrows had more utility and so went the blade. This replacement would do as well as anything. The bows he found, however, would not. They were all short and he preferred a good longbow. He was about to despair of being left to defend himself with sword alone when Brighid called out to him.

"Try that," she said, walking nearer to him and then tossing a longbow at him. He caught it and stared down at the smooth, light wood. "It's playing havoc with my ring," Brighid continued. "It must be enchanted."

She held up her right hand. A heavy, gold signet ring was on her index finger and he quickly banished the question of whether it was Cousland or Theirin. Likely the latter. It was not what she had been referencing at any rate. On her ring finger, there was a silver band and it shined and sparked when he looked at it, the runes covering its surface gleaming in the firelight. In his hands, he could feel the magic humming through the bow, even without any errant enchanted items of his own for it to react to. He studied it carefully, running his hands along its length until he saw it. Burned into the wood was the Howe family crest. Recognition flooded him.

"This is my grandmother's bow," he said. He remembered finding it years ago, as a child. He could barely string it then and his father had been furious when he caught him with it. Nathaniel's grandfather had been an Orlesian sympathizer, but his wife, Ruth, and his brother, Byron, felt differently. They ran off together to join the rebellion. Eventually, Nathaniel father's Rendon had joined his mother and uncle's side and distinguished himself as the Howe heir, returning their name to nobility. But after King Maric ascended to his throne, Ruth was not done. She left to join the Grey Wardens. In the wake of his father's failures, Rendon had never forgiven his mother for either count of what he termed abandonment.

"I'm surprised my father didn't burn it," he continued. "Thank you."

Brighid shrugged one shoulder, flippant. "You were probably going to steal it anyway."

Nathaniel chose to ignore her and instead sat on the steps and strung the bow. They finished searching the area and the others waited—Brighid tapping her foot impatiently at the top of the stairs—for Nathaniel to retrieve his arrows. With Brighid and Willem having disposed of their torches, only Anders' staff lit the way back through the passage, but it was more than enough.

They crossed through the dungeon and to the entry way that would take them even deeper into the basement. There were more stairs, spiraling down, and at first there were intermittent landings, where one hall or two would stretch off leading to a room, each one dustier and longer abandoned than the last. Eventually, the steps stopped entirely. Then there was only a tunnel made of rough stone and tightly packed dirt.

"How far down does this bleeding place go?" Brighid growled when they ran out of stairs.

"No one knows what's at the bottom of the Vigil," Nathaniel said, truthfully. "It's always been here."

"Lovely."

Ten minutes into the tunnels they turned a bend and spotted an opening and a light flickering ahead. Expecting darkspawn, Nathaniel drew an arrow and pulled it back easily, bow singing in his hands. The tunnel opened up into a chamber, once again of smooth fitted stone. There was also a wall of dirt and rubble blocking what Nathaniel assumed was yet another tunnel. Like the crypt, a campfire was situated near the center of the room. Unlike the crypt, there were no darkspawn. Just three people, hunched over with a labored, lumbering gait that was familiar even after just one encounter.

One was a woman and Nathaniel, forgetting himself, moved closer. She turned, hissed, and charged. Her fellows followed. Nathaniel backed away, lowering his bow, eyes locked on Adria's ruined face. She held a little knife in her hand and she swung it at him, eyes uncomprehending.

"Adria!" he yelled. "It's me! Nathaniel!"

She just continued shrieking. Behind them the fight was already over, though it could not truly have been called a fight. Brighid and Zevran had put the other two down like dogs. Adria's eyes were empty, not even the slightest spark of recognition. Instinctually, Nathaniel blocked a swing of her knife with his bow and winced to think of ruining another one — this one particularly — so soon, but the knife did not even make a notch in the spelled wood.

"Please, Adria," he said, though he recognized now that it would have no effect. So intent was he on his former nurse that he did not see Brighid approach until she grabbed Adria by the hair and yanked her back. Brighid twisted the woman to the side until she was facing the floor, then ran her long knife across her throat. Even the blood that pooled beneath her was mottled with viscous black globs, not unlike what was contained in the vial in his belt.

"I said survive," Brighid said quietly. She paused momentarily, looking at him, but said nothing else before turning and rejoining the others.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In Awakening, Nathaniel talks at length about his paternal grandfather being a great hero and a Grey Warden. However, for anyone who read the Howes of Amaranthine codex entry, it quite clearly states that Rendon Howe's father was actually an Orlesian sympathizer who was ultimately ousted and hanged by the Couslands. Rendon later redeemed his family by joining the rebellion and fighting with Bryce Cousland at the battle of White River. This is obviously just another instance of dudes not keeping track of their own lore and my fix was to make Nathaniel's grandMOTHER the hero and acknowledge the codex entry.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

Nathaniel stared at Adria's body and swallowed down emotion. When he looked up again, Brighid had proceeded to the blocked passageway. She raised her knife — the same one she'd just used to kill Adria — and chose a spot in the mound of rocks and dirt. She began to whittle into it with the tip of the knife and after a few moments stopped and sniffed.

"Got it," she declared.

Zevran moved forward and sniffed near the hole she'd made as well, then wrinkled his nose.

"A Deep Roads entrance," he said and Brighid nodded in agreement. "I would recognize that smell anywhere."

"There's not that much rubble blocking it, but I'm no mason," she said. "Willem, go and fetch me a mason."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the knight replied immediately, then took one of the timbers from the campfire to use as a torch and marched directly back the way from which they'd come.

"Well, that's going to take at least an hour," Anders said.

"Hour and a half," Brighid corrected. "Are you that dismal at entertaining yourself, Anders?"

"Not at all," he protested. "But I'm much better at entertaining others. Perhaps I could do a little dance for you, my lady."

"I'll pass," Brighid replied as she dusted off a hunk of stone to sit on, some distance away from the campfire where the dead ghouls lay.

"You could dance for me, my fine mage," Zevran said, eyes sparkling.

"No, no thank you," Anders said. "I only dance for the fairer sex."

Zevran snorted. "People do not come much fairer than me."

"He's got you there," Brighid said.

"Raincheck, perhaps," Anders replied, leaning against his staff.

Zevran managed to squeeze himself onto the slab of stone Brighid perched upon with a minimum of jostling. Angry at everything in the moment, Nathaniel wondered once again who this elf was to be so overly familiar.

"Your loss," Zevran told Anders with a shrug.

Nathaniel leaned against a wall and kept his own counsel. The others continued their chatter — or rather Zevran and Anders did while Brighid sporadically interjected. Nathaniel suspected they did it just to fill the silence, to avoid concentrating on the bodies. He wished that he could do the same. He caught Anders shooting him a sympathetic look now and again, but he pretended not to see.

Ser Willem returned with Sergeant Maverlies and an entire retinue of soldiers and workmen. A dwarf was at their head and he began directing the removal of the barrier. Brighid spoke briefly with Maverlies, and some of the soldiers were tasked with carrying the bodies of Adria and the other two unlucky servants back up to the surface.

The dwarf and his crew made swift work of the tunnel blockage. As anxious as Nathaniel was to depart, he followed along curiously as Brighid led the way forward. She carried one of the torches that the others had brought with them, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

The opening led into a high-ceilinged hallway. It was floored with seamless stone engraved with runes. The ceiling was unfinished, but the rocks were luminescent in soft yellow and blue, lighting the hall. Each side of it was lined with square entryways, and at the end, there was a much larger entryway leading out into endless darkness. Brighid and Zevran had been correct. This could be nothing but an entrance to the dwarven Deep Roads.

"I would be willing to wager," Brighid said, "that these tunnels all lead to the keep's other basement entrances."

Sergeant Maverlies, who had followed close behind Brighid, looked at the openings suspiciously.

"Do you think there are still darkspawn in them?"

"Doubtful," Brighid replied. "At least any living ones. But send men to make sure the tunnels are clear anyway."

She turned to Voldrik as she walked towards the larger entrance at the end of the hall. Upon moving closer himself Nathaniel could make out massive hinges and incomprehensible layers of slots and fixtures lining the opening. It was a door.

"Voldrik, can you close this?" Brighid asked.

The dwarf's face lit up. "Oh, it's beautifully constructed. I can close it. And it'll hold up for at least a few decades before we have to do something more permanent."

"Good," said Brighid and left him to it. She passed Willem her torch as she fell into step with Zevran and Anders.

"It seems as though I will be running Garavel's errand in Amaranthine after all," she announced.

Her business done, Brighid proceeded back up to the surface and Nathaniel followed, wondering what was next. Once they were back outside, now in the afternoon air, Brighid answered his unasked question.

"We will proceed with your Joining, Nathaniel," she said. "Right after I check on something."

She did not wait for a response before marching off in the direction of the smithy. Two men were there, though only one stood near the forge. He was the one that Brighid addressed.

"Master Wade," Brighid said, voice ringing through the air. "Where is my armor?"

"It is my masterwork!" the man replied apparently entirely unmoved by Brighid's demand, which, Nathaniel had to admit was impressive — or foolhardy. "You cannot expect me to rush!"

"It has been three days, ser. I can very well expect you to have it done in a reasonable amount of time. You are cleaning and repairing it for Andraste's sake, not constructing a new set!"

"Herren," Master Wade called out in a beleaguered whine, addressing the other man. "How can I be expected to work under these conditions?"

Herren's voice had the sound of one long-practiced at calming temperamental dispositions.

"Now, now, Wade," he said, waving his hands as if to quiet the man before turning to face Brighid. "Your Majesty, I am sorry," he began. Then, Nathaniel's attention was caught and he stopped listening.

A few yards away, carrying a collection of gardening tools was a familiar figure. The weathered planes of his face had more wrinkles, but there was no mistaking the elf that stood within shouting distance. Nathaniel glanced at the rest of his company. Brighid was looking increasingly agitated and the armorsmith had progressed almost to the point of hysteria. Anders and Zevran looked on with amused interest and Willem seemed ready to behead the armorsmith and his partner on basic principle. Swiftly, Nathaniel took the few steps required to put him in the old groundskeeper's path.

"Samuel!" he said as he bent down slightly to look at the man's face.

Samuel looked up at him and his eyes widened, then softened.

"Little Nate!" he exclaimed. "Why I never thought- What are you doing here, son?"

"That is a very long story and I haven't much time," Nathaniel said. He ran through the questions in his mind, all of the different things he had feared and wondered, and tried to pinpoint something to which he could receive some kind of answer before he was called back.

"Please, Samuel, I would like to know… how did my brother and sister die? I know about my mother and everyone knows about my father. But what happened to Thomas and Delilah?"

Samuel looked a bit taken aback but, recognizing the urgency in Nathaniel's voice, answered swiftly.

"Thomas died in the war, Nate," Samuel said and seemed genuinely sad. "He was never much of a military leader and his men were routed. But Delilah- I'm not sure how you don't know." Nathaniel braced himself, but Samuel was smiling. "She's not dead. She married a merchant in Amaranthine a while back."

Nathaniel gaped at him, reeling, and over Samuel's shoulder he could see Willem's eyes focusing on him as Brighid finished her business with the smith.

"I don't know where she lives exactly," Samuel continued, "but she was still there and well last I heard."

Nathaniel nodded and grasped the man's shoulders.

"Thank you," he said with all the feeling he could muster, then turned and moved back to the group just as Brighid spun on her heel to proceed towards the keep. Willem, for once, stopped following Brighid's every footstep to fall back and walk near Nathaniel, glaring. Nathaniel ignored him.

His sister was alive and it didn't matter what other trials Brighid planned to put him through. When it was done, he was going to find her.

* * *

Nathaniel Howe lay at Brighid's feet. Beside her, Anders peered down at him.

"Is he…?" the mage asked, trailing off.

"He'll be fine," Brighid replied. "It's a lot messier when they don't make it."

Anders frowned, but flipped the expression right back into a smile before it'd even had time to settle on his face.

"One more to help bear the burden, then."

Brighid passed Anders the Joining chalice and did not respond. The less she reflected on the burdens she need bear — especially those she had fully intended to lay down — the better. She opened the door to Varel's office and the man himself came in from the great hall at her beckoning.

"Back to his room," she said, indicating Nathaniel and curtailing Varel's questions. Varel waved over a pair of servants waiting nearby. He and Brighid cleared the door so that they could haul Nathaniel out.

"I think that I will go have Enchanter Cera clean this," Anders said, still holding the chalice and visibly pleased at the thought of harassing his fellow mage about it.

"While you're there, you can ask her if she would be so kind as to instruct you in the preparations for the Joining ritual. As a Warden mage it is far past time that you learned so that you may take up her duties," said Brighid.

Anders' expression wilted.

"You are no fun at all," he said as he continued out of the room, his step far less jaunty than it had been.

"So I have heard."

Varel smiled faintly and Brighid took a deep breath. The last of her vassals had sworn fealty the day before. Though many still lingered at the keep, Brighid's immediate business with them was done. The remaining darkspawn threat at the keep itself was settled, as was Nathaniel Howe, and she did not plan to leave for Amaranthine until he woke up — hopefully by the next morning. For the first time since she arrived at Vigil's Keep, there was nothing dire that required Brighid's immediate attention. Which, in turn, meant that it was time for her to see to all the things that she had been ignoring.

"Varel, list three items you've been keeping from me while I was otherwise occupied. Things that I either need to know right now or can do something about right now, if you please."

Seneschal Varel considered this, then began his recitation apace. He was very good at his job.

"Word is getting out that you have offered no troops to the farmlands, so some have begun abandoning them to move to the city. It is still overtaxed from Blight refugees, but there is little to be done about it. Still, it is important that you are aware.

"Captain Garavel has been campaigning for improved armor for his men. He and Mistress Woolsey have argued to exhaustion about the cost, but the true question is where we will acquire the metal to make it. I would recommend capitulating to Garavel in this.

"And," Varel said as he walked to his desk and opened a drawer. "You have correspondence."

From within the drawer, he produced a stack of parchment.

"I hope it was not… inappropriate, but I took the liberty of checking with Master Zevran to be entirely certain that there was nothing you would wish to see immediately," he said and when Brighid gave no indication of affront, he continued. "Though there was a letter this morning that I think will be of particular interest to you."

Varel moved out of the way as Brighid took a seat at the desk. She had not known, to start, whether Zevran would choose to ally himself with Varel or find the man a liability and cut him out because of it. The seneschal's awareness of Zevran's closeness to her and his willingness to acknowledge it to Brighid answered the question. So too did the way the Antivan had neatly folded Varel right in, and Brighid's business continued to run as smoothly as possible because of it. Expressions of gratitude were not their way, not between her and Zevran, and Brighid did not second-guess that. But on rare occasions, she sometimes thought that even as well as they knew each other, Zevran couldn't possibly understand how much she appreciated him.

"I have a few letters I need to write as well," Brighid said, inspecting the accoutrements on Varel's desk. "Thank you, Varel. And please tell Captain Garavel that I will speak to him about outfitting his soldiers later today."

Varel sketched a bow and voiced his assent before departing from the door of his own office without so much as a put-upon look. There were other studies, Brighid knew, many around the keep more spacious and private. But setting herself up in one, making a space her own, implied far too much about how long she intended to remain here. She had not even moved the belongings she traveled with into the bedroom she was using. Every day, her maids brought what she immediately needed to her and took away anything she did not — acting, as they did on the road, as the keepers of her effects. She did not leave so much as a hairpin in the room when she was not there. Unless she was bathing, dressing, or sleeping, in fact, it was impossible to tell that anyone inhabited the room at all.

Brighid shuffled through the letters Varel had collected for her, looking for the one he'd mentioned. It was on the bottom and it was immediately obvious why Varel thought to bring it to her attention. There, pressed into the pale green seal, were the twin laurels of House Cousland.

She broke the seal with one finger and scanned the familiar slanting scrawl. Her brother always did have terrible penmanship.

o0o

_Dearest sister,_

_I know that it has not been long since my last letter to you in Denerim and I wish that I could profess to be sending this merely in the interest of taking advantage of your present close proximity. Unfortunately, I am writing out of concern._

_Namely, out of the concern that you may have taken leave of your senses, little sister. It has come to my attention that you think to conscript __Nathaniel Howe__ into the Grey Wardens. I scarcely know how to begin to process this. Not only has he had the unthinkable gall to show his face in Ferelden, but he made an attempt on your life! And instead of putting him down like you did his treacherous bastard of a father, you want to induct him into your order? I know that you have a history with him—we both have long history with the Howe family—but this is outrageous. I have no reason to doubt my source, yet I still feel the need to ask if my information could possibly be accurate as this seems so far-fetched._

_Over these last few years, Brighid, you have done many things that have shocked and surprised me, but I much prefer the sort that fill me with pride instead of unreasoning terror for your continued health._

_How could you do this? What in Andraste's name are you thinking, girl?_

_Fergus_

o0o

Brighid read the letter once, then again, and then a third time. Her jaw tightened more with each repetition. Her temper rose almost beyond her control. The edges of the letter crumpled in her clenched hands and she set it on the desk and smoothed it out. Then, she ran her hands across her hair, stretching the skin of her forehead taut before she stopped and stood up. She marched to the door and threw it open, then looked immediately to one side where Willem stood.

"Come in here," she said, then turned and went back to the desk and sat again.

This could not stand. It could be fixed — this time — but she could scarcely bear to think of what the next letter she received might look like if she let it go. Fergus's interference, while infuriating, was isolated. But dragging her brother into her affairs was one small step away from dragging her husband into them. If Alistair had been compelled to interfere it would likely come at no small cost to the far more important things he was supposed to be doing. It would distract him, and while he was in the middle of a Bannorn eager for war, distraction wasn't only dangerous to him politically, but in a much more immediate and physical sense. And _that_ was something she would never abide. The dealings of kings and queens were no one else's to involve themselves in for a reason.

Willem followed her into the room and closed the door behind him. Then, he arranged himself in front of the desk.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" he asked evenly, though he was clearly aware of Brighid's ill temper.

"This," she said, holding up Fergus's letter, "is a message from my brother in which he professes great concern for my decision to conscript Nathaniel Howe into the Grey Wardens. The problem with that is that there is no way he could yet know of that decision unless someone told him right after it was made!"

Willem flinched as Brighid raised her voice, but did not speak or move.

"Now, interrupt, Willem, if I am working this out incorrectly," Brighid said knowing both that she was not and that he would do no such thing even if she had been.

"Nathaniel Howe has not left this keep and precious few people here have any idea who he is, even fewer that he is a Warden recruit. Of the handful present when he revealed his identity and was conscripted, three besides myself are familiar enough with my brother to directly contact him about anything. Obviously, I did not. Zevran did not." She put the letter back down on the desk with more force than necessary. "So unless Knight spontaneously learned to read and write, it was you, Willem!"

"He is a Howe," Willem said finally, voice cracking, but thick with conviction. "You cannot trust him, my queen."

"I will if I damn well please," Brighid exclaimed. She wanted to leap to her feet, to shake him, but she remained in her chair, voice growing colder by the word.

"Don't you _ever_ try to tell me what I can or cannot do. What did you even think to accomplish? Were you trying to go over my head in the misguided belief that _I_ could be commanded by a teyrn, regardless of his relation? He is my brother, but I am his liege and yours. Do you really think so little of me?"

It was an unkind thing to say to Willem, of all people, but he had gone too far for Brighid to hold her tongue.

Willem's eyes widened and his jaw slackened.

"I think the _world_ of you, my queen, and more," he said and she knew it was the truth. "I only worried for your safety, I thought that- if your brother worried as well then you might reconsider."

Brighid exhaled slowly, then rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. When she opened them again Willem was still staring at her, penitent and terrified. But terrified not for himself, for her. Always for her.

"Nathaniel is not his father, Willem," she said, voice back to its normal register, filled with calm conviction. "I punished Rendon Howe for his crimes and he is dead. You cannot hold his son accountable for them. He is a Grey Warden now. You are under no obligation to like him, but as long as I am here, he is your comrade. You will have to learn to live with that."

For a long moment, Willem hesitated. Then, he nodded.

"Yes, my queen," he said, finally. His green eyes were distraught and he looked every bit the wounded animal — a sad hound waiting for its master to kick it again, too loyal to move out of the way.

Brighid sighed heavily. Normally that expression did not accompany any true transgression, but it was no more bearable, it turned out, when it did.

"Do not make that face at me, Willem."

He bowed his head.

"I did not mean to, my queen."

"Just… get out." Brighid waved her hand irritably. Yelling at Willem was a useless proposition. He was miserable with her displeasure alone and she had never been one to find much catharsis in emotional outbursts. Though, when he was halfway out the door to retake his post she did call after him: "And do not send anymore letters. To anyone. About anything."

His assent floated back as he closed the door behind him. Brighid shuffled through Varel's desk until she found a quill and a stick of wax. A stack of parchment and a bottle of ink already sat on the top righthand corner of the desk.

She paused, considering her words, before she began to write in neat, densely-packed characters. When she was done with Fergus, she could get to the letter she'd intended to write regarding her apostate recruit. It would already take long enough to get back to Denerim. She couldn't really afford to tarry.

o0o

_Teyrn Cousland,_

_While I cannot say that your information is entirely inaccurate, there has clearly been a bias in the manner in which it was reported to you. It is true enough that Nathaniel Howe has returned to Ferelden and that I thought to induct him into the Grey Wardens. As of the time of this writing that has been carried out. He did not, however, make any attempt on my life. He professed to considering such an attempt before giving the idea up. He was ultimately caught stealing. _

_I have no concern for history, only the present. And in the present, he has been armed in my presence and at my back while I was otherwise occupied in sundry ways, but still failed make any attempt on my life. This served to reinforce my initial impression that he was never especially interested in seeing me dead. Which is more than I can say for various people I interact with on a daily basis at court._

_To respond to your final questions: as your queen, I would note that I do not need your permission to do anything, least of all sentence a prisoner, nor am I required to explain myself. As the Warden-Commander, I would remind you that whom I conscript is not your province. And as your sister, I would suggest that you mind your own business, Fergus._

_I appreciate the nature of your concern, but I have the situation well under control. Lest you forget, I am an adult. I also saved this entire country — which, you may recall, I now rule — from the jaws of oblivion. As unbearably darling as the sentiment is, I do not need you looking over my shoulder anymore._

_Pursuant to this topic, if you happen to correspond with my husband while he is in the Bannorn, do not under any circumstances mention this situation to him. He is even more senselessly protective than you are and he has other things that require his full attention at the moment._

_If you are left uncomfortable by the thought of withholding information from your king — even something so trivial — I request you think back on the dozens of debts to me that you accrued over the course of our childhoods before making your final decision._

_I would also ask that in the future you refrain from enabling the seditious behavior of my subordinates by going along with their attempts to tattle on me._

_Sincerest thanks for your cooperation._

_Your sister,_

_Brighid Theirin, née Cousland_

_Queen of Ferelden_


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

Nathaniel woke up late. They'd placed him in the same room in which he'd been imprisoned before the descent into the basements, before his Joining. No guards waited at his door. Only a servant stood in the hall when he ventured out, leaning against a wall in a posture of great boredom. The boy gave him a well-rehearsed instruction to report to the queen in the great hall, then disappeared down a corridor.

In the same room where she and Anders had conducted his Joining, Brighid told Nathaniel the truth about being a Warden. He took it in stride — he had been living on borrowed time since his return to Ferelden. Thirty years of it was more than he'd expected. He took the amulet that she dangled from two fingers and settled it around his neck, barely feeling the weight. Then, he'd been ignored, left to mill about with the rest of her followers as they waited for her to find a lull in the business of running an arling. It chafed, being treated just like the others, as though she had not done what she did to his family, as though there was no enmity between them. It did not feel like forgiveness or benevolence. It felt like dismissal, like his malice towards her was simply beneath her notice.

He wanted, needed, to convince her to allow him to search for his sister, but he could not bring himself to ask any favor of Brighid Cousland. He could imagine her response.

So Nathaniel waited and seethed and followed her when she was finally able to depart the Vigil. She argued with her guard captain — or rather the man wheedled and she ignored him — and left with only her fellow Wardens and her pets: the elf, the knight, and the dog. It was well after midday when she did, and thus there was little chance they would make it to Amaranthine before nightfall. The suggestion that they wait until the morning to leave was still summarily rejected. Nathaniel got the distinct impression that she hated being at Vigil's Keep almost as much as he did.

The overcast afternoon sky promised rain, but the road to Amaranthine stretched out before them and Brighid would not be stopped. Nathaniel adjusted his pack on his back and marched on. It rained on them for nearly an hour. Not hard enough to force a stop, but enough so to make the walking unpleasant. Brighid did stop them when it grew dark, proving that — if nothing else — she would submit to the demands of the sun itself.

It might have been impossible to start a fire had Anders not been there, but damp brush was no match at all for his ability to summon fire from nothing. They brought simple trail rations from the keep, so they did not need to cook. Instead, they unpacked their bedrolls and dried themselves out around the roaring blaze. Ser Willem, out of his armor for the first time Nathaniel had ever seen, raised a tent for Brighid. Her dog shook his fur out to much protest from those nearby who were covered in the discharge, then curled up near the fire.

The woman herself sat on a stump by the fire. Zevran's bedroll was closest and the elf stripped from the waist up, spreading his shirt and tunic out near the fire to dry. His state of undress revealed that the markings he carried did not end with his face. They swept and curved across his chest, arms, and back. He grinned and chuckled intermittently as he and Brighid engaged in one of their regular quiet conversations. Brighid smiled with him, the easy intimacy of long familiarity obvious in her bearing.

As they spoke, Brighid doffed some of her clothing as well. She propped her boots against a rock. The thick, grey wool tunic came off and she sat in her shirtsleeves, hair wet and undone and hanging to her waist. She combed absently through the tangles before twisting it back up on top of her head in a glossy black knot, as though she were in her dressing room instead of off to the side of a road in a dreary clearing.

Adjacent to Nathaniel, Anders snored softly. Through some trick unique to him, the mage had kept the rain from himself entirely and so had eaten and immediately fallen asleep, exhausted from the day's travel. Willem completed the construction of Brighid's tent and, upon reporting back to her, immediately announced that he would take the watch. Brighid did not object and so the knight fetched some food from his pack and paced to the perimeter of their little camp, eyes scanning the distance. Zevran, who had taken substantially longer fussing with his hair than Brighid had, retired soon after.

Brighid moved closer to the campfire as Nathaniel watched her from the opposite side of the flames. She speared a hunk of bread on a stripped branch and held it over the fire until it softened. In the night her face looked pale as a ghost and the dancing fire emblazoned it with orange and yellow, the light reflecting in her eyes. Something pulled uncomfortably tight in his chest and he averted his gaze, scowling.

There would never be a better time to ask her about Delilah, but Nathaniel found he could not. He could not force the words past that knot of emotion — anger and frustration and pain and other things he wouldn't name mixed in with all the memories. His family and his life before and the lives he'd imagined he might have someday when he could finally come home: all of that had been been taken from him by this woman, in more ways than one. He wanted to hate her, but he failed at that just as he had at killing her — considered it, got close to the attempt, and then pulled up short.

He realized that he was staring at her, brow furrowed and jaw tight, at the same time that she did.

"You really should be less surly," she said after chewing and swallowing a bite of bread. "It does not suit you."

There she was again, always picking at him, poking his already raw wounds.

"And how are you to know what suits me?"

She shrugged her shoulders, the slightest of movements, as if she could not be bothered to explain it to him.

"Fine then. You should be less surly, Nathaniel, for it does not suit _me_."

Nathaniel sneered at her, then pulled his lips back from his teeth in a gross mockery of a smile.

"Does this please you?" he asked as he watched her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen.

"Quite a lot actually," she said.

Then she laughed, as if there was nothing driving his response but genuine mirth, and the sound made something snap apart the knot in his chest. He let the rictus slip from his face. Nathaniel had a fraught relationship with memory since his return to Ferelden. Memories were all he had left for the most part, but there were far too many things he wanted to forget. The well-worn few of Brighid Cousland were among that sort. He had no idea who she was now, in this moment or any since they'd met again, but he remembered who she had been in other moments years before.

_He scans the room negligently, unable to feign much interest in the proceedings. Nathaniel is an honored guest at Castle Cousland, but he has been away from Ferelden for years and Highever even longer. There are few who wish to talk to him in which he imagines he would have any interest. Thomas is, as ever, the life of the party. A gaggle of pretty girls surround him, fawning over the heir to the arling of Amaranthine. He preens like a cockatoo. That will undergo alteration once he is far enough into his cups. He will still be the center of attention, but not in a manner that he is likely to enjoy. It will alter the opinions of few of his ladies, however. Any charm Nathaniel's brother possesses is not a heavily weighted factor in their attraction._

_Briefly, Nathaniel has been taken under the wing of a few young men who much more commonly attend such functions — sons and nephews of local banns. But they have since found their own companions and disappeared to various corners of the banquet hall into which every eligible man, woman, boy, or girl has so deftly been herded. Doubtless they are being watched by shrewd eyes so that every potential dalliance and connection can be reported back to their parents and plans made. Most of the subjects of this machination are reasonably compliant. Even his sister Delilah sits daintily on the edge of a chair and listens with rapt attention to the young man talking to her._

_One girl, however, stands alone and Nathaniel's eyes catch on her._

_She is Brighid Cousland, daughter of the teyrn, and Nathaniel has been warned._

_Frigid and impossible are the words his companions most commonly used. Brighid Cousland claims no intention towards marriage and, they added in whispers, had turned down then-Prince Cailan Theirin to prove it._

_Nathaniel has been warned, but he has also never been one for rumors and hearsay. He remembers a coltish tomboy covered in dirt and freckles. Anything else, he tasks himself to find out firsthand._

_She leans back against the wall, arms crossed, and he walks up to her side. _

_She is still freckled. They scatter boldly across her high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose and more faintly in many other places: the strong chin beneath full lips, the smooth forehead above huge, blue eyes, her shoulders and collarbones and who knows where else as they disappear under the cut of her dress._

_Outside of the freckles, he has no real cornerstone._

_She does not speak to him or acknowledge him in any way at first. Then, she turns to look at him. Then, past his shoulder — easily as her height matches his. Finally, she presses her back against the wall again, lips pursed._

_"I am going to have to demand that you not move, ser," she says calmly._

_"Is that so?" he asks, caught between confusion and hope._

_Her voice comes at a quick clip. _

_"Unfortunately, yes. There is a gentleman across the room, directly opposite you — do not look! — with whom I do not wish to speak. You are blocking me from his view."_

_He is unsure of whether she is jesting, but she seems entirely serious and so he obeys. He is already where he wants to be anyway._

_"Happy to be of service, my lady."_

_"All the better."_

_Silence descends and then Nathaniel asks: "Dare I inquire as to the name of the man so unlucky to have your disfavor?"_

_"Thomas Howe," she replies without hesitation._

_Nathaniel does not laugh, but he would like to do so. They do not speak of it directly, but both Thomas and their father would be quite chuffed if Thomas could attract the teyrn's daughter. Nathaniel takes no small pleasure in how unlikely a proposition that seems. He smiles when he speaks._

_"Sadly, my lady, I feel compelled to inform you that Thomas is my brother."_

_She looks at him appraisingly, but turns only her head so that she is still neatly shielded by his body._

_"You are… Nathaniel then?"_

_"Do you not remember me?" he asks, though he does not truly expect it._

_"You are squired in the Free Marches are you not?" There is no apology in her tone. "It must have been years since you've last been in Highever."_

_"True enough," he admits. "Quite a few, in fact. We were children. You had to have been about twelve at the time." He watches her face for reaction. "You threw pebbles at me."_

_She raises her eyebrows, though she does not seem surprised._

_"Did I? I must have demanded that you fight me only to be declined. Pelting such offenders with things was how I usually reacted to rejection."_

_"Indeed it was that."_

_"The squires of Castle Cousland eventually learned not to deny me. Did I get you good?"_

_"Quite so," he confirms. "I had a welt on my neck for three days."_

_Her smile is feline. _

_"Then perhaps you learned your lesson as well."_

_"Perhaps I did."_

_She looks pleased with this, but her brow wrinkles soon after._

_"Though, given that you are a Howe, I do believe you are less useful to me than I originally thought. While you help me to avoid Thomas's attentions, if my mother is to hear of us speaking she will likely get it into her head that I should marry you instead." A grimace. Not all rumors are lies it seems._

_"Should I be insulted that you see it as such a terrible fate?" he asks, though he is not at all._

_"If you wish to be insulted then be so," she says. "Though it no offense to you. I have no interest in marrying anyone. I'm certain all of the gossips around here have told you that already."_

_Caught, he sees no reason to pretend otherwise. _

_"I heard it, yes, though nothing regarding why exactly it is."_

_She responds, again, without hesitation. _

_"Why shouldn't it be? Do you think the institution alone recommends itself so much? Particularly to one like myself who is positioned to have little say in the matter." She turns up her chin. Her lower lip protrudes ever so slightly. "Everyone supposes that I need a reason to eschew marriage. I think that I need a reason to carry it out. And I have never yet met a man who gave me a compelling one."_

_Her eyes are challenging and his blood races in his veins._

_"Now I think I will be insulted," Nathaniel says, smoothly. "Considering that you and I have just met."_

_She leans closer to him, but not inappropriately so._

_"So be it," she says, wrapping her mouth meticulously around each syllable._

_"I confess, I think it quite a waste for one so beautiful."_

_She smiles this time like she's caught the canary and he realizes his mistake the second before the words leave her mouth._

_"Do you think it charming — the implication that should I remain unwed my beauty would be wasted? I will still exist will I not? My beauty will still be available for all who wish to look upon it. I should think I would be far more wasted were I, for instance, to have a jealous husband who locked me up in his castle and kept me all to himself."_

_He bows his head in concession. "You make a fair point, my lady. Perhaps wasted is not the word. You will be like unto the stars or the moon, your beauty there to be seen by all, but touched by none."_

_When she laughs, high and light and full of genuine amusement, he considers his recovery successful._

_"Now that _is_ charming," she declares._

_"Every word of it is true."_

_She shakes her head, a quick, sharp motion, and then scoffs. _

_"Oh, I don't mean that. I mean the assumption that should I never marry," she says, "I shall also never be touched."_

_There is no stopping his flush or the clearing of his throat._

_"You are a lady," he reminds her firmly. "And I would never imply otherwise."_

_She shrugs, unimpressed and unconcerned. _

_"Have it your way," she says casually. Then, with sudden urgency, she moves away from the wall and from him. "And here comes your brother." _

_She doesn't run. Not exactly. Her voice wafts back to him. _

_She says: "Good day, ser. If you tell him which way I went you will regret it."_

_He thinks: "In more ways than one."_

If there was anything he'd learned from his ordeal since then it was that you came to regret everything, eventually. And he did regret her. Not just what he'd felt, but knowing her at all. A stranger would have been better. False starts and nascent possibilities weren't worth much. And they certainly weren't worth not being able to properly despise the woman who gleefully tore his entire world to shreds.

Brighid's laughter tapered off and he had nothing else to say to her. He could not ask her about Delilah. He could not ask her anything. He could barely look at her. So, instead he lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes without another word.


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

Anders woke up early, just as the sun dawned. He often did so when camping. It was a leftover from seven escapes and seven captures — seven journeys during which sleeping later than his captors could result in grave bodily harm. What he did not expect was to see Queen Brighid already up and about. He'd always imagined royals lounging around until the late morning, at least. While he was summoned only at her command during their days at the Vigil — and that command did not come the moment she woke in the morning — he knew for a fact that she had been abed until nearly noon the first night. Then, Anders supposed, it was entirely possible that she just had a lot of extra energy now that the king wasn't around to give her a royal tumble.

Anders stretched, working a knot out of his shoulder, as the queen rearranged the items in her backpack. She was very meticulous about it despite the fact that she did not even carry the bag herself; Willem did. Perhaps it was very easy to become accustomed to controlling absolutely everything when one was a queen. She definitely seemed to enjoy control.

Anders stepped around the dying embers of their campfire to draw closer to her before speaking, aware of the fact that Nathaniel and Zevran were still sound asleep.

"Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?"

"As well as can be expected," she replied, tugging at the laces on one of her boots. "You seemed quite comfortable."

"Oh, I can sleep anywhere," he said, smiling flirtatiously.

"I believe it."

Behind them, Willem set himself to breaking down the queen's tent. Knight padded out of it as it began to waver and snorted irritably. Then the mabari yawned, its maw gaping open, sharp teeth bared to the morning. The queen gave him a few strips of smoked beef when he came over to her. He plopped down beside the stump she perched on and went to work. The queen chewed on her own breakfast, but Anders found himself watching Willem. His movements were no less swift and economical than they ever had been, but his face looked shadowed, dark circles, like bruises, beginning to develop under his eyes.

"Did he sleep last night?" Anders asked the queen, voice low.

She looked at him in confusion before catching his meaning.

"Given that he was on watch, I should hope not," she said, before taking a swig from her water skein.

"And no one relieved him?"

"He volunteered," she countered. "Did you wish so badly to have your sleep interrupted?"

He did not, but that, he felt, was beside the point.

"Why do you let him do that?" Anders asked. A moment after the words left his mouth he considered that it might be too forceful, too much like making a demand of her. She was quite prickly.

Willem had finished with the tent and was now attaching his armor. There was no sign of damage from the rain the night before. He must have tended it while everyone but him slept.

Queen Brighid's eyes narrowed, appraising, before she answered him.

"Do what? His job? I am the queen. Before that I was a Cousland, and he was beholden to my family. He serves me as he is sworn to." Anders believed her. It was not all that he believed, however.

"But I do not think you are a cruel mistress." Of everything he'd heard about the Queen of Ferelden in the time since her ascension, something about which he felt very confident was that she always acted for a reason. He felt from personal experience that those reasons were not in the interest of causing pain. In the few days that he'd known her, he'd already seen her take in too many strays for that, himself included. He wouldn't say that her bark was worse than her bite, only that she seemed disinclined to bite unless necessary.

"You do not, do you?" she asked. Anders sensed both the challenge and the amusement in those words.

"No," he replied, simple and direct. "Yet you allow him to run himself ragged for you, through injury and fatigue, even when it is not necessary."

"He's sworn to die for me," she said. "Do you think he should balk at mere discomfort?"

Anders' tongue was stilled by her tone. Another thing he had learned during his time in her company was that making Queen Brighid angry was never a good idea. They sat in silence but for the sound of Willem continuing to strap himself into his armor.

Then, the queen spoke again.

"You do not know Willem as I do," she said quietly. "It is not only his duty and his right; he considers it a privilege. It is obvious that he is uncommonly zealous, and he has his reasons for that. Were I to tell him to be otherwise, it would shame him more than you can understand. It does no permanent harm, so I let him be."

Anders chanced another look at the knight, trying to determine if he could be so incomprehensible as the queen claimed. Queen Brighid, on the other hand, was done talking.

She stood and clapped her hands.

"Oi! Get up! Time to go!" she yelled.

Across from them, Nathaniel shifted around on his bedroll, then propped himself up on one elbow, bleary-eyed in the early morning sun. Beside them, Zevran did not move. Queen Brighid bent over and flicked one of his long, pointed ears.

"I know you're awake, Zev," she said.

The elf grunted, then rolled over on his back, peering up at her.

"Slave driver," he accused, voice rough with sleep, then mumbled something else in Antivan.

"Hardly," she responded, and yanked his blanket half off of him.

He made an exaggerated shivering sound, crossing his arms over his bare chest and obscuring some of his many tattoos.

"Cruel woman," Zevran insisted as he sat up. Anders did not think, however, that he would count that evaluation in his continuing assessment.

It did not take them very long to get back on the road. Queen Brighid drove them forward at a steady pace, but not with the fervor she had the previous day, when she'd been trying to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall stopped them. That dedication proved useful, however, as they walked for less than three hours that morning before reaching their destination. The high walls of the city of Amaranthine towered in front of Anders and the others, but between them and the fortified port lay a sea of humanity.

The refugee camp was a sprawling tableau of tents and ramshackle huts, small places with room to sleep and not much more. A few of the city guard wandered here and there, but it was obvious that there were nowhere near enough of them. The people went about their business as the queen, Anders, and company wove their way through them. Few seemed to find the group more interesting than their washing and cooking or livestock and playing children. Before leaving Vigil's Keep, Queen Brighid had tersely informed them all of their goals on this excursion: investigate both the claims of a pair of hunters who'd encountered darkspawn and the location of the last remaining Orlesian Warden.

The hunters were somewhere in this mess and, had it been up to Anders, he wouldn't have had any idea where to start. The queen seemed to be able to make some sense of it that he could not and, after a short time, led them towards a particular collection of tents ringing a very large bonfire. It smelled of roasting meat, even early in the morning, and there were furs and skins, drying, tanning, and who knew what else all over the place. If hunters did not camp here, it would be a shock.

As they approached, the queen questioned a passing woman as to the location of the hunters called Colbert and Micah. The woman directed them, but Queen Brighid paused and turned on her compatriots before proceeding there.

"Although I have no illusions of maintaining anonymity," she said, eyeing each of them in turn. "I would very much appreciate it if while we are in the city, you all refrain from making any scenes."

Though he got the distinct feeling that she was talking mostly to Willem, Anders could not resist.

"No throwing my robes over my head and doing a jig. Got it," he said with a bow and salute.

He might have imagined the beginnings of a smirk, but the queen did not otherwise deign to respond and returned her attention to the camp. She walked towards a pair of men. One was brown-haired with scruffy stubble and the other a blond elf. The brown-haired man perked up as the queen approached, paying little attention to Anders and the other men trailing behind her. Anders could identify with that impulse.

"Are you Colbert?" Queen Brighid asked the man directly.

He smiled broadly, leaning towards her. "For you, sweetcheeks, I'll be anyone."

Not graceful, but direct at least. Anders had to give him that.

The queen did not change her affect in any way. Though, Anders noted that she scanned the immediate area before speaking.

"I am Brighid Theirin."

The hunter's eyes lit up.

"I can get on board with _that_." Beside him, his elven companion scrutinized Queen Brighid before eyeing Anders and the others. "Just call me King Alistair. I think the royal scepter is in need of a good-"

He stopped short as the queen raised her right hand, the large signet ring on her index finger imposing and unmistakable.

"I think she's serious, Colbert," the elf said.

"Yeah, I just got that Micah," Colbert mumbled. "Uh- I'm- Apologies… er, ma'am."

"Her Majesty." Willem gritted out the correction from between clenched teeth.

Colbert blanched.

"Your Majesty, er-"

"Just tell me about the darkspawn," Queen Brighid said, cutting short the awkward fumbling.

"Yes, of course!" Colbert said. "That would be- Yes. Uh. It was- we were quite a way out of town. Tracking a buck. A huge strapping thing. Clever too. I'd wager he thought it was jolly fun, leading us on a chase as he did."

Queen Brighid crossed her arms and managed to eclipse with her stature Colbert despite the fact that they were roughly the same height.

"I am not here to discuss venison, ser."

"Right. The chasm. With the darkspawn. We saw it coming over a rise. You can't miss it. It's a huge cleft in the earth. There were some structures in it. Wooden. Bridges, stairs and platforms and the like, like someone tried to build over it, but abandoned it long ago. Or maybe the darkspawn did it. Who can say? No one in town seemed to know anything about it." His voice grew less tremulous as he continued, regaining his bearings. Anders thought he might very much enjoy telling this story under normal circumstances.

"We decided to investigate. That was when Micah fell in."

"The ground crumbled. It wasn't stable," came Micah's terse addition.

"I'll say it wasn't. I tumbled right after him. And while I was trying to right myself and he lay there yelling about his knee or what have you, the darkspawn appeared."

"How many?" asked the queen.

"I don't know. More than a brood, less than a horde?" Queen Brighid fixed him with a skeptical look that Anders mimicked. That was a lot of darkspawn for these men to have seen and live to tell the tale.

Colbert interpreted their expressions accurately.

"We got lucky," he said. "They seemed distracted. Like they had some place to be. They just ignored us."

If Queen Brighid was satisfied by this explanation, Anders was not.

"The darkspawn were so occupied as to overlook two screaming, injured men?" he asked. "Boggles the mind."

"Does a bit, doesn't it?" Colbert agreed. "Not that I'm complaining. After they passed, we hoofed it out of there as fast as we could manage."

"We made a map," Micah said, snatching a parchment from a nearby crate that was serving as a table.

Colbert took it from him and presented it to the queen. He pointed to a particular point that had been circled boldly, then crossed out.

"We marked it out real clear so we could avoid it. But I suppose you'll want to go right for it."

Queen Brighid accepted the map, studying its lines and notations.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"That's all we know, yes ma- Your Majesty," Colbert replied.

She passed the map to Zevran, then rummaged in one of the pockets on her belt. Then, she flicked one coin each at Colbert and Micah.

"An entire sovereign," Colbert exclaimed, wide-eyed. Micah examined his closely. Anders suspected he was doing his best to hold off the impulse to bite it and test its authenticity. "Well, that certainly makes falling in a ditch worth it. Thank you, Your Majesty. Maker bless you."

Both men executed jerky bows and Queen Brighid inclined her head in acknowledgement before walking away.

"Do you believe them?" Anders asked once they were threading their way through the tents again, moving ever closer to the gates of the city.

"There is little reason not to. Besides, if they were going to lie I'm certain they could come up with a better conclusion for the story than 'the darkspawn were too busy to kill us.'"

"It is exactly ridiculous enough to be true," Zevran agreed.

That did make a certain amount of sense. Maker knew in his retellings of his escapes he never mentioned clumsy accidents and self-inflicted injuries. Cowering from his pursuers because he was outnumbered and close enough that they could make short work of him with their Templar talents became enacting clever plans of escape so that he'd never been near them at all. When you told a story, even a mostly true one, everything got glossed. The effect was even more pronounced if you were making it up entirely.

Of course, Colbert and Micah's story being true indicated that there was more strange darkspawn behavior going on than just what took place during the invasion of Vigil's Keep. That was big, huge perhaps, and a thing far beyond Anders' experience. His concerns had always been smaller, limited to his own troubles. Grey Warden or no, he did not know how good he would ever be at juggling worries of that scale — he did not know how good he would ever want to be at it. Queen Brighid stayed in the lead as they neared Amaranthine's entrance. Anders did not envy her that. All he had to do was follow and hope that she would do her best to make sure they all came out on the other side. He had confidence she would as long as he was useful.

The gates were open. City guards in their matching armor stopped travelers as they came and went, searching through their effects. Anders' company made it halfway before one of the men stopped them.

"Hand over your bags. I'll be examining them," he said to them.

"You will do no such thing unless you tell me why," Queen Brighid said.

The guard huffed in irritation.

"Smuggling, ma'am. It's practically an epidemic in Amaranthine at the moment. So. Orders stand: every bag gets checked, coming and going."

The queen frowned, brows knit.

"And has this practice actually curtailed the problem?"

The guard's face screwed up, both surprised by the question and unsure of how to answer it. Then befuddlement gave way and he decided on annoyance.

"Ma'am, just give me the bags or I'm going to have to run you in for disorderly-"

"What do you think you're doing?" Another voice cut through the guard's as a second city guard approached, fair-haired and quite angry. He was the higher ranking as the first immediately saluted and began attempting an explanation.

"Orders, constable," he said. "She wasn't letting me check her-"

"You were just accusing the Queen of Ferelden of smuggling, you idiot!" the constable exclaimed.

The unlucky guard look at his constable, his queen, and then back. He began bowing with such haste and force that Anders thought his head might come flying off.

"Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I had no idea-"

"Just get out of here," the constable interrupted and the guard bowed once more then fled.

The constable turned a smiling, and openly adoring, expression on Queen Brighid.

"I apologize for that, Your Majesty. I am Constable Aidan," he said. "Your guard captain, Ser Perth, sent word ahead a few days ago that you would be visiting the city with minimal accompaniment. So we should be prepared to see to your safety and needs."

"He did, did he?" Queen Brighid asked, making it evident that this was something Ser Perth had taken upon himself.

Constable Aidan missed this subtlety and forged on.

"Yes. And you cut an unmistakable figure. To most at any rate. I apologize again if Elgin insulted you, Your Majesty."

"He was doing his job," said Queen Brighid. "One that might not be necessary if you were doing yours to a higher standard."

Constable Aidan's face underwent swift alteration as surprise at Queen Brighid's mercy turned into barely concealed umbrage. The adoration had fled entirely.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, substantially subdued.

"Elgin indicated that the smuggling problem in Amaranthine is dire. Is that true, constable?" Queen Brighid asked.

Constable Aidan hesitated, but there was no way around the fact that his subordinate had already shared too much.

"It is an issue, yes," he admitted. "Trade is slow because of the darkspawn and so smugglers have set up shop selling everything at exorbitant prices. There is an organized ring, but with policing the city and the refugee camp, we haven't enough spare men to hunt it down and root it out."

"It sounds as if you require assistance."

The constable shook his head.

"I would never presume to trouble Your Majesty-"

"Of course you wouldn't," Queen Brighid interrupted. "And I have other things to do, but I am certain I can work out something. Where do you send messages?"

Constable Aidan led them through a nearby door into the battlements and from there a sharp left turn to a tiny windowless room lit by a pair of sconces. It contained a table, a chair, and not much else. No one but the queen and the constable bothered to go in. Anders and the others waited in the hallway, peering in through the open door.

The queen took up the quill sitting on the table and scratched out a short note. She folded it into crisp thirds then tipped a nearby candle over it, the un-dyed wax dripping itself into a grey-ish circle. With the ease of much practice, Queen Brighid pressed the face of her signet ring into the drying wax, then handed the letter to Constable Aidan.

"Send this back to my guard captain and you will have all the assistance you need by morning."

The constable merely nodded, flabbergasted, then led them back outside.

"That will be much appreciated," Zevran said as they left the constable behind and took their first steps into the city proper.

"It is something that needs doing," Queen Brighid responded. "And if Perth is so interested in the goings-on in Amaranthine he can put his cantankerous impulses to better use while we are otherwise occupied."

Queen Brighid walked the streets of Amaranthine as if she owned them — and perhaps she did in a manner of speaking — while Anders took no small pleasure in being in a city again. He had technically been free for days now, but being confined to the keep had not been at all relaxing. This was different though. The city bustled around them and he could, theoretically, go anywhere. Even if, as the queen soon reminded him, he was expected to go some very particular places.

"We need to inquire after Kristoff at inns, taverns, and that sort of place. The majority of them are down by the docks and in the market quarter. We will stay in the latter and spread out from there," she said as soon as they began to pass stalls stuffed with goods and merchants yelling prices at them.

Anders had wandered off to one side, intrigued by a display of golden earrings, when a familiar voice cut through his consideration.

"I see you finally decided to show up."

He spun around to face the tiny, tan, elven woman leaning against a nearby wall.

"Namaya!" he exclaimed. "You're here!" Her fine-boned face was bent into a scowl and she marched towards him looking none too friendly.

"Yes, I'm here. Some of us keep our promises!" she said, poking him in the breastbone.

Behind Namaya, the others had noticed him lagging and now approached. Anders suspected they were quite interested in the show.

"This is the last time I ever do anything for you," Namaya continued. Then Queen Brighid made the mistake of coming close enough to make it evident that she was with Anders.

Namaya looked her up and down before spinning on Anders again.

"And who's this?" she demanded, though it was clear she had no intention of letting Anders answer. Or get in a word. Ever. But then from her point of view it hadn't worked out that well the last time she'd listened to him. "The reason you're late, I gather? You know what? I don't care. The cache is here in Amaranthine like we thought. In an abandoned warehouse. Here."

She shoved a crumpled piece of paper at him. When Anders unfolded it, it revealed itself to be a map of the docks.

"If you're going, you'd do well to hurry. They've been hunting maleficarum in this area, so they're going to be more cautious. I nearly got pinched investigating," she said, "and I'm not ending up in some Chantry cell for you or anyone else. I am done with you, Anders. Never again."

Namaya faced Queen Brighid before she walked away.

"A word of advice: don't let him sweet talk you. He's _really_ good at that."

As Namaya disappeared into the crowd, Anders regarded the eyes of every last one of his companions fixed on him — save Knight, who found a nearby rat more interesting.

He laughed in an attempt to break the tension.

"I suppose that, uh, requires some explanation," he said.

"A _friend_ of yours, I take it," Queen Brighid said, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Is that jealousy I detect?" he teased, unable to help himself. Something about the turn of her mouth set him off.

She cocked her head at him.

"Anders, you do realize that in addition to being the King of Ferelden my husband is also a former Templar, do you not?"

"Right, right. Sorry, old habit," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "At any rate, I would be happy to explain, but it is not the sort of thing one should explain in public."

"Sounds like my favorite kind of explanation," said Zevran. Nathaniel, who had been silent and even more surly than usual all morning, just rolled his eyes.

"Fine," said Queen Brighid. "Let's go find an abode."

It took less time than Anders expected to find an inn that appealed to the queen. The map Namaya had given him, and all it represented, burned in his hand. The place was neat and small, but not overcrowded. Queen Brighid made the innkeeper an extremely happy man when she immediately rented out every last one of his remaining rooms.

They convened in the queen's room, with its four-poster bed, fireplace, and dining nook. She perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. Her mabari sat behind her while Anders, Zevran, and Nathaniel took seats at the table. Willem leaned against the door.

Queen Brighid gave Anders an expectant look and he took a breath before launching into his tale.

"Namaya was a… friend I made during my last escape. She's in the business of retrieving items and she heard a rumor that, before the attack on Denerim, the phylacteries stored there by the Chantry had been moved to Amaranthine for safekeeping. When the Templars chased me to Amaranthine, they thought I was trying to get to the city to catch a boat out of Ferelden. But I wasn't. I was going to find Namaya and, hopefully, my phylactery. I wanted to destroy it."

Anders watched Queen Brighid's face for a reaction, but he could not discern much more than her attentive listening.

"I know that the Chantry would have us all believe such an intent abominable, but I only wish to be free. As long as they have my phylactery, there's nowhere that I can hide from them. I'll always be looking over my shoulder. So, even with everything that's happened, I still want to go get it. I'll understand if you can't help me, but I hope that you will not stop me."

His throat felt dry when he finished and he stared at the queen, awaiting her support or condemnation. Making use of a mage for the Grey Wardens was one thing; allowing him to truly free himself, free himself so that he could never be caught again, was another entirely.

Zevran spoke before the queen did.

"You shall have to alert dear Wynne that you will not require her assistance after all then," he said, looking at the queen.

She nodded absently as if deep in thought.

"Wynne?" Anders asked. "Senior Enchanter Wynne?" He remembered her from his early days at the tower. She had been one of his first instructors when he demonstrated an aptitude for healing. That was long before he became too much of a problem to get anywhere near such an upstanding beacon of magehood as she. She'd passed him in the corridors of the tower after that, eyes full of compassion, but she didn't speak to him. No one did, most of the time.

"She is the mage advisor to the throne," Queen Brighid said. Something tickled at Anders' memory. Somewhere, in the many reams of reports about the various upheavals, he might have heard her name attached to that, but he'd barely believed the idea, in and of itself. There hadn't been a mage advisor to the throne in hundreds of years. No ruler cared enough about the lot of mages to bother with that sort of thing.

Except, apparently, the young Theirins that currently sat on the throne. For the first time, Anders considered that perhaps Queen Brighid hadn't recruited him just because mages were useful.

"You asked her about my phylactery?"

"I wrote to her in Denerim for counsel on how best to go about obtaining it, yes." His face must still have held every bit of his shock because she looked at him oddly before continuing.

"You are a Grey Warden now, but I am well aware that Templars are selected for zealotry above all else. I thought it best that they be encouraged to… forget you."

"Thank you," Anders finally blurted out. Queen Brighid saved him once before, but he had not thought her benevolence would extend so far. No small number of people pitied him over the years, a few even expressed a desire to help, but they all ended up like Namaya, sooner or later — realizing the extent to which he was shackled and letting him fend for himself.

"I haven't done anything yet," she said mildly. "Besides, this is better."

"I dunno," Anders said, unable to hold back a giddy giggle. "Your way sounds easier. And more impressive."

"Impressive perhaps," she allowed. "Hardly easier. The Grand Cleric will be displeased that I conscripted you, though it was my right. I am a Grey Warden still, but I am queen foremost, and that is never left unconsidered." She snorted derisively. "She already feels that I am not pious enough during her interminable weekly services."

This was evidently too much for Nathaniel to bear. Before, he had been taking in the proceedings with what Anders would call, at best, detached interest. Now he spoke up, voice bone dry.

"You? Impious? One could hardly imagine."

"I have far better things to do than sit around for hours contemplating my many sins," she said, still addressing Anders. Then, she shifted her gaze. "You would agree, Nathaniel, that they are prohibitive in number would you not?"

He grunted and Zevran grinned.

"_Things_ to do, eh? An odd way to refer to the king, but then you would know better than I," the elf said.

The queen ignored him.

"At any rate, simply going and retrieving the phylactery here would be far less impolitic than having it delivered to me through my resources as queen. Though, it will have to wait until after we have dealt with the matter of Kristoff. It is the sort of work best done at night, anyway."

"If you knew you needed to search an entire city for one man," piped up Nathaniel again, "why exactly did you leave your guard back at the keep?"

Anders had wondered that as well, but he would also have chosen to express it in a far less confrontational manner. Luckily for Nathaniel, Queen Brighid did not seem any more fazed by his attitude than she had before.

"There is little chance that Kristoff is still in the city," Queen Brighid explained. "If he were, he would have heard about the attack on Vigil's Keep days ago and returned there. We are not looking for a man. We are looking for information as to where he went and that, in my experience, is best gathered personally and not by alerting everyone in the city and its attendant sprawling camp of destitute refugees that they may be able to wring a few quick coins out of the queen by making something up."

She stood. "There are not so many inns in this city. If we split up we can cover them all in a few hours. Meet back here by sunset. Then we can look into Anders' little problem."

"Willem, you stay," she said as she waved the knight away from the door. If he objected, it was evident he would never give voice to it.

Anders followed Queen Brighid back downstairs into the inn's common room as if walking on a cloud. He got to go on a stroll around the city, and, in a few short hours, the chains that had been clamped around his neck since he was ten-years-old would finally, finally be pried off.


End file.
